The Masquerade: A Novelization of Bloodlines
by deathhamsters
Summary: This is (or will eventually be) a full-length retelling of the tale from Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines. It follows the story of a fledgling vampire, sired against her will and forced to contend with a dark, forbidding, and dangerous new world in which vampires are in constant conflict - with themselves, with other superhuman creatures, and even with human society.
1. Prologue: Jyhad for Beginners

**To readers new to the Vampire: The Masquerade universe:**

This is a story set in the World of Darkness - an alternate version of the modern world in which vampires, or 'Kindred' as they are more commonly called, live and struggle in their nightly unlives. It is a dark world - one in which its inhabitants are constantly made to contend with issues of morality, immortality, iniquity, desperation, and despair.

 **To those already familiar with the VtM franchise:**

As with my previous novelization, this one is yet another attempt at a full-length novelization of an amazing game - Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines. There have been a few attempts I've seen already, but none that have really delved into the more mature elements and implications of 'living' as a vampire in a realistic modernized world. Once again, my emphasis is on plausibility within the logic of the game world. And that means that, as with Fallout, I may make tradeoffs either with respect to the plot of the video game or even, on occasion, with the lore of vampirism in VtM. If I do so, it will be done for the sake of realistic plausibility. However, I'm always interested in hearing feedback, especially if there are good creative ideas in them.

 **To those who also read my previous novelization:**

As some of you may know, there's been a long hiatus since I last finished and then revised Fallout 1. Partly it was my own personal work. Partly it was because my repeated attempts to novelize two other games prior to this one - Baldur's Gate and Grim Fandango - have failed. I have decided it's not possible to give these stories the plausibility treatment without drastically changing several key elements of the stories. So I'm dropping them permanently. In any case, there are already full-length novelizations of both in existence.

DISCLAIMER: Most names, locations, and the overall plot are, or at least were, the property of Troika Games and Activision. This is merely a piece of fan fiction written in homage to an excellent game. As before, my main purpose is to bring to the literary medium an amazing story that would otherwise be restricted to the audiovisual medium. The work is completely not-for-profit. A strong effort has been made to replicate the events, themes, and key dialogues from the game, except where alterations were needed for the sake of narrative plausibility. The result is that this story WILL occasionally deal with dark and mature themes catered to an adult audience. Right from the start, I'm assigning this an M rating even though I know this means a reduced prospective audience. I'm also starting with a full-length beginning which I know will scare off some people. I may at some point introduce a shorter prologue before this one, y'know the sort that more effectively captures the attention of the reader. But for now, no such thing.

* * *

 **Prologue: Jyhad for Beginners**

Her name was Carlotta. But everyone had always just called her Lotta. She had always preferred it that way. Based on what her parents had told her, Carlotta meant strong, and for her entire life, she had been anything but.

She hadn't been strong when the hotel had fired her for breaking the nose of that business magnate who'd let his hands wander too high up her skirt; hadn't been strong when she'd headed to the downtown bar instead of back to her apartment; hadn't been strong when she'd let her first drink of alcohol since the last time she could remember end up becoming her sixth; hadn't been strong when the charming man with the deep gaze and fathomless eyes had approached her, asking her name; hadn't been strong when they'd reached his hotel though everything inside her had told her to say no and leave; hadn't been strong when they'd ripped each other's clothes off, knocking the wineglasses and furniture over in their rush to feed the animal within; hadn't been strong when they'd made love between and on and off the sheets that night, and then through the night; hadn't been strong when he'd clasped the handcuffs onto her wrists, fed her strange white pills that made her feel like she was floating to the ceiling, and then continued with what they'd started the night before while she watched in her drug-induced stupor from on high as if she were an outside spectator; hadn't been strong when she'd come down from her high and he'd released her later in the afternoon and they'd carried on till night as if nothing had changed except that her body had gone way past its natural limit and they'd had to work through almost an entire bottle of lube; hadn't been strong when he'd leaned into her and whispered, "I want to show you something," just before she'd felt the blinding pain in her neck and lost consciousness; hadn't been strong when she'd woken three hours later with a strange ache in her neck and the mysterious and nameless stranger fixing her with an intense and enigmatic stare from where he'd sat across the room

Hadn't been strong… when the newcomers with the glowing eyes had bashed in the door; hadn't been strong… when the thuggish one had plunged a jagged piece of wood through her chest; hadn't been strong… when she'd discovered she was still alive but had lost all control of her body; hadn't been strong… when they'd dressed her paralyzed, naked body and moved her and her most recent acquaintance into a darkened room with no lights or windows; hadn't been strong… when the one with the sneering grin had leaned over her and told her… she _wasn't_ alive and that she should treasure the last few hours of her time on Earth… hadn't been strong when they'd removed the hood a day later and she'd found herself kneeling on a stage before an audience…

* * *

"Lotta," he had said somewhere deep in the middle of their conversation, savoring the word as if its utterance somehow gave him pleasure. "I like that better than Carlotta. Do you know what 'lotta' means in Italian?"

She had shaken her head, too entranced by his magnetic personality, piercing eyes, and (in retrospect) simply the attention he was showering on her, making her feel needed, making her feel _wanted_.

"It means 'to fight' or 'to struggle'. And I can tell you are struggling, Lotta. Are you a religious person?" She had been hesitant, afraid of breaking the spell if she spoke the truth. "Well, 'struggle' is an important element in the Islamic faith."

"Oh, I'm not—"

"Bear with me a moment, if you will. Nowadays, every time some terrorist group that emerges in the Middle East wreaks havoc in some other Western country, we hear the term 'jihad' thrown back and forth quite a bit in the media, don't we?"

She had frowned. "Are you trying to say—"

"What most people misunderstand about the religion," he had continued, "is that the more _important_ struggle, the 'greater jihad', has always been the _internal_ one, not the _external_ one that everyone obsesses over."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Lotta, the greatest struggle occurs within each and every one of us. Losing a job always sucks, especially when it leaves your future dangling by a thread like that, but what's really at stake right now is what's happening inside of you. When you're secure in that, when you've won that struggle, then nothing the world throws at you can faze you. Now, I know little about hotel management or what it might take to change your former employer's mind and take you back in. But what I _do_ know a lot about is what it's like to have that struggle within yourself. I may not have known you long, Lotta, but I know _you_. And I'm hoping, that, if you'll let me in, you won't have to go through this struggle alone."

And she had let him in, fully and completely.

But this man who had promised her a way out of the constant cyclical depression of being poor and out of work – a lost soul in Tinseltown, one of many – had now also overturned her entire life, her very being, her very humanity. And now he was kneeling beside her, as defeated as she was lost, waiting for the hammer to fall.

"Good evening, my fellow Kindred," said the well-dressed, well-groomed young man in the business attire with the crisp accent. "My apologies for disrupting any business or interfering with prior engagements you may have had this evening." He was speaking to the audience even as she knelt there alongside her unnamed companion of the previous night. The one who had stabbed her in the chest now stood behind her lover, his hand clasped over the man's neck, forcing him to stare at the wooden panels at his knees. The sneering man pulled the stake from her chest and, gradually, she found herself regaining control of her body. Yet she remained as still as before, afraid that any sudden movement might mean her end.

Behind the pale, aristocratic young man stood a giant with almost simian features, wearing a trench coat and standing just over two feet taller than the speaker. There were no pupils in his eyes, only a uniform red haze. Lotta had seen him standing in the doorway when the other one had stabbed the stake through her heart the previous night. On his back was slung an enormous executioner's sword and Lotta suspected she knew the blade's purpose that evening.

They were in some kind of grand theatre complete with galleries, boxes, and orchestral seating. It didn't look familiar to Lotta.

"It's unfortunate that the affair that gathers us together tonight is a troubling one," the speaker continued, delivering his words in calm, measured tones. "We are here because the laws that bind our society – the laws that are the fabric of our existence – have been broken."

Lotta gazed up from the wooden stage floor where she had been blankly staring and, for the first time, noticed the diversity of the audience. Over on the right side of the aisle, a casually dressed, bald-headed man in a tight long-sleeved shirt was whispering into the ears of a man in a goatee with an open blue denim jacket with folded sleeves worn over a faded white t-shirt. On the left side, Lotta spotted a beautiful, buxom, pale-skinned young woman with striking red hair and silver eyes dressed in nothing more than a corset; Lotta suspected she knew the woman's profession. The woman blew a kiss to someone in the gallery seats: another bald man – but with pale, almost bluish, skin – wearing a rich red velvet overcoat with matching round-rimmed glasses. He waved off her gesture.

Off to the side of the orchestral seating was a man in a grey business suit over a blue dress shirt. He was also well groomed, only he looked to be in his late fifties to early sixties. Near the stage sat a scowling young woman in glasses with blonde locks parted down the middle and tied in a chignon at the back. She too was dressed in a business jacket. At the other end of the row was a woman in a grey t-shirt with unruly shoulder-length burgundy hair sliding out from beneath the grey beret on her head. Far towards the back of the theatre, leaning against one of the pillars in the shadows stood a gruff, unkempt man with long, grimy, dark hair and an equally disheveled long beard. He was smoking a cigar.

And that was just a few of the more notable characters in the room. It was, without a doubt, the most varied group of people Lotta had ever seen in a single space, at least as far as social class went.

"As Prince of this city," the well-dressed man continued, "I am within my rights to grant or deny the Kindred of this city the privilege of siring. Many of you have come to me seeking permission, and I have endorsed some of these requests. However, the accused that sits before you tonight was not refused permission. Indeed, my permission was never sought at all." For the first time, the charismatic young man's brow betrayed signs of his displeasure. "They were caught shortly after the Embrace of this Childe."

Lotta couldn't bear to face the eyes of the audience that had all turned to her. She cast her eyes once again at the floor beneath her. Over the past few hours, she had had time to think over what the sneering man in the cap had been telling her. Vampires existed. And now she was one of them. But apparently there were rules and, through no fault of hers, she had broken them just by being alive… or undead, or cursed, or whatever the hell her current condition really was.

"It pains me to announce the sentence," said the Prince, if that truly what he was, "as up to tonight I considered the accused a loyal and upstanding member of our organization. But as some of you may know, the penalty for this transgression... is death." The Prince spoke those words with the same calm, and it chilled Lotta to her core. "Know that I am no more a judicator than I am a servant to the Law that governs us all," he stated to his audience. "Let tonight's proceeding serve as a reminder to our community that we must adhere to the code that binds our society, lest we endanger all of our blood."

Lotta's companion was moved unceremoniously to the front of the stage and positioned so that his head was bowed, neck exposed. He gave no resistance. Lotta felt her breath coming heavily in terrified anticipation for what was to come.

The Prince bent to one knee so he was level with the one to be executed. "Forgive me," he said solemnly, before rising once again to his feet and giving the command. "Let the penalty commence."

The simian with the enormous blade stepped forward, raising it high above his head. Then, with one swift stroke, separated Lotta's companion's head from his shoulders. In her peripheral vision, Lotta could detect movement. Her eyes fell on the beautiful red-head in the corset who seemed most affected by the execution to the point that she'd had to turn her gaze from the sight.

Lotta couldn't help but gasp as her former lover's head landed right in front of her, and then, within just a few seconds, seemed to decay to a point that made it looked as if he'd been dead for months, his features sunken to the point where the shape of his skull was clearly visible. She gasped again as his head was unceremoniously picked up by the same vampire who had held him down earlier.

"Which leads to the fate of the ill-begotten Childe," said the Prince, and Lotta found herself shaking, knowing she was next. "Without a Sire," said the Prince, "most Childer are doomed to walk the Earth never knowing their place, their responsibility, and, most importantly, the laws they must obey. Therefore, I have decided that—"

"This is _bullshit_!" an angry protest came from the audience. Lotta looked up to see that the man in the blue denim had risen in anger. The girl in the beret and the man who had been whispering to him earlier were also on their feet, but in order to hold him back. Murmurs rose from the rest of the audience and many similarly rose to their feet at the sudden commotion. The voices and muted conversations grew in number, filling the auditorium. Lotta snuck a glance at the Prince who was surveying his audience with an intense but calculating glare. He held that glare for several seconds, before his brow relaxed and his anger seemingly faded, at least from the surface.

" _If_ Mr. Rodriguez would let me finish," he said softly but with enough authority to quieten the room. "I have decided… to let this Kindred live." Lotta's shoulders went limp as relief flooded through her body. "She shall be instructed in the ways of our kind," the Prince continued, "and be granted the same rights. Let no one say I am unsympathetic to the plights and causes of this community." He let his words sink in for several long moments before continuing. "I thank you all for attending these proceedings, and I hope their significance is not lost. Good evening."

* * *

When the crowd had dispersed, Lotta eventually found herself alone on the stage with the Prince. She still couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye. She knew she had just dodged a very fatal bullet but still couldn't fathom why. And the whole notion of a society of vampires with rules and punishments still shocked her, perhaps even more than the other bit of revelation that she had still not yet come to terms with – her identity as a vampire or, as the Prince had termed it: Kindred.

"Come," the Prince said in the same tone with which he had commanded the attention of his entire audience only minutes before. Lotta rose obediently and followed as he exited the stage. "Your Sire," he said as she followed behind him down the halls of the theatre, "Tragic. My apologies. But you see, there is a strict code of conduct that all of us must… must adhere to if we wish to survive." Lotta yearned to ask him just what all of that meant, but was too afraid to open her mouth. "When someone, anyone, breaks these laws," the Prince continued without a single glance back at her, "they undermine the well-worn fabric of our centuries-old society. Understand my… predicament. Allowing you to live makes me directly responsible for your subsequent behavior. So. What I'm offering is not generosity but the opportunity to transcend the fate woven by your Sire. This is your trial."

They reached the end of the passageway at one of the theatre's exits and the Prince turned to face her. "You will be brought to Santa Monica," he declared matter-of-factly. "There, you will meet an agent by the name of Mercurio. He will provide the details of your labor." The Prince leaned forward ever so slightly but the gesture was clear as day. "I've shown you great clemency. Prove it was more than a wasted gesture, fledgling. _Don't_ come back until you do. Good evening." And with that, the Prince turned, exited the theatre, leaving her completely alone in the hallway.

Lotta was in a daze. Everything still seemed so surreal! And now she was supposed to be shuttled off to Santa Monica… Whowas supposed to bring her there? It felt almost like being in a new job, with a set of expectations for her but no guide as to how to go about meeting them. The difference, of course, was that if she failed, they would kill her… again, if the first time counted.

Was she supposed to follow the Prince out? It hadn't seemed like it. But what, then? At that moment, Lotta just wanted to go back to her apartment and implode. But it didn't look like they were going to let her go back.

Lotta vacillated for what seemed to her like hours before finally opening the door and stepping outside into the night.

"What a scene man," she heard someone off to her left comment loudly. She turned to see the disheveled hobo with the long beard and sleeveless jacket leaning against the wall, smoking his cigar. "Hoo-wee!" he exclaimed, laughing raucously, and she knew his comment had been directed at her. "Then they just plop you out here like a naked baby in the woods. How 'bout that?"

"I…" It was the first word Lotta had uttered since the hotel bedroom who knew how long ago and she didn't know how to continue.

"Look kiddo," the seemingly cheerful man told her, "this is probably a lot for you to take in, so, uh, why don't you let me show you the ropes. Whattaya say?"

"Wh… who _are_ you?" Lotta asked uncertainly.

"I'm Jack," the man replied straightforwardly. "What's important is I'm offering help. You make it back from Santa Monica with your hide and we'll trade life stories, okay? 'Til then, I got about _this_ much time. You in or out?"

"Okay," Lotta replied timidly, then admitted, somewhat gratefully, "I could use the help."

"Now, we ain't got much time," said Jack, "but I figure _somebody_ should fill you in on the bare bones stuff at least. Y'know, could save your hide…"

A sudden wave of vertigo washed over her and Lotta had to catch herself to keep from staggering. It wasn't lost on Jack.

"You look wobbly," he noted. "You even had a drink yet?"

"Drink?" she asked with a confusion that gradually and swiftly began fading as his meaning hit her. With the threat of death hanging over her head the entire time, Lotta hadn't even given a thought to what was perhaps the central myth in every book, film, and rumor she had ever known about vampires – blood. Now she felt like she was going to be sick, but she wasn't sure if it was because of the thought of actually drinking blood or because she didn't have any.

"Oh, man, we're poppin' a cherry here!" Jack guffawed at her expense, making her feel more than just slightly uncomfortable. "Ah, you're gonna love this!" he exclaimed, before growing a little more serious. "Alright, check it out," he explained. "Blood: it's your new rack'a lamb; you're new champagne; blood's your new fuckin' heroin, kid. Get ready, though, cuz, hey, it's never as sweet as the first time."

"I..." Lotta grimaced. "I'm not sure I can do it."

"Ah, that's what they all say at first," Jack said dismissively. "Look, do you want to live? In that vampire way, I mean." She didn't reply. "Well, you're never going to take another bite of human food again, so this is the only way you're going be able to keep swingin'. You with me so far?"

Lotta wasn't, but she nodded anyway. Perhaps it was the vertigo. Either way, she didn't feel up to offering more of a protest than she'd already done.

"Look, I can tell you've gone awhile without your fix," said Jack. "Newbie as you are, you're not gonna feel so hot in a little. So you may want to decide what's the bigger trade off. No skin off _my_ teeth, but, either way, you don't have the luxury of time, just so you know."

Lotta thought for a moment, but already she could feel a second wave of dizziness creeping up from within her. She knew there were ethical, not to mention existential, questions that needed answers, but Jack was right. She wouldn't even get the chance to find answers if she were dead.

"Okay," she said quietly. "What do I do?"

"Well, down around the corner there, saw this human. Poor S.O.B. – can't find his car." Jack chuckled mischievously.

"So… what do I… I mean, uh…"

"Alright. You go down there, casual like, then bare those little fangs and feed."

That was another thing Lotta hadn't thought about until that moment. She raised her fingers to her teeth. Although she had been expecting it, the sharpness of her canines still surprised her. And it almost seemed as if they were… growing in length as she thought more about the deed to come.

"Don't worry if you weren't captain of the wrestling team or somethin'," Jack continued. "It'll come so naturally you'll think you'd done it a thousand times already."

The thought of attacking another human without any provocation sounded terrible to Lotta, but another, more pressing, question rose to the fore. "Won't he become a vampire?" she thought to ask.

Jack gave a loud rowdy laugh. "Forget that comic book crap, kid. It don't work that way. Now go for it. Be sure though – and this is important, so listen up – be sure not to drain 'im dry, okay? It might be hard to resist, but don't kill 'im."

Jack's call for restraint wasn't the most shocking thing Lotta had heard that night, but it nevertheless surprised her. There was a lot about these vampire rules that she was finding out about. Whatever the reason, it made her feel less terrible about what she was about to do.

Following Jack's directions, Lotta made her way to the end of the alleyway and the parking lot beyond. Sure enough, just as Jack had said, a man was fumbling in his pockets and briefcase for the keys to his cars. Lotta approached slowly and uncertainly from behind, feeling weak and unprepared for the task. What was she doing? How was she even going to do this? Just the thought of biting someone, even that lecherous asshole who had tried to grope her in the elevator back at her former workplace, felt repulsive to her. And drinking blood? The last time she remembered doing that was when she'd accidentally bitten a nasty hole into her lip several weeks ago. And the taste had been hardly worth recommending.

She was right behind the man when he turned. At first, he seemed uncertain, perhaps even a little curious and excited about why a woman would approach him in a darkened parking lot alone. But then something changed. Lotta couldn't tell what. But she saw the look in his eyes change. A flash of fear. The beginnings of terror. His mouth opened, although whether to gape or scream, she couldn't tell. What she _could_ tell was that the blood vessels throughout his body, especially in his exposed neck and wrists were pulsing like crazy – calling to her. And she moved in.

Lotta couldn't tell how exactly it happened. All she knew was that warm flesh was between her teeth, and then his skin gave way to her razor-sharp fangs and the hot, dark ichor was filling her mouth. And it drove her wild.

She had thought the sex and the drugs and the feeling of being wanted, desired – all feelings she had felt in her sire's hotel bedroom – had been the most intense rush she had ever experienced. Only now did she know how wrong she had been. The blood seemed to permeate her very cells. She could feel it everywhere. It filled her even as she felt enveloped by it. It was a climax in every fiber of her being. And through it all, she also became vividly aware that it was this man's life that was now coursing from his flimsy mortal frame through her throat and into her own system. He was becoming a part of her and she couldn't get enough. She had to have it all. And it was so easy. All she needed to do was hold on and—

"Alright, kid, I think you've had your fill for tonight," she heard a familiar voice through the haze of her ecstasy. Something clamped around her neck with enough strength to force her to release her grip on the life before and around and in her.

And just like that, the red mist that surrounded her lifted. Full, vibrant color came rushing back in, and the energy and life force before her coalesced into the shape of a human. And with that sudden realization, she released her hold on the man who slumped backwards against his car, before sliding to the ground in a paralytic daze.

A part of her was mortified at what she had just done. But the energy, the power, the life that now coursed through her veins made it hard to heed that sentiment. All of a sudden, the world felt so much more alive. She could see every detail in the man's face, even to the broken skin in the tiny puncture marks in his neck. She could hear every car and bus that was driving along the main road a block away. The bare breeze that passed through the parking lot felt crisp on her face and arms, as if she could feel even the uneven pressure it gently exerted on different parts of her skin. The smell of the nearby sewer was pungent yet strangely nuanced – a combination of dozens of distinct odors. And the taste! The savory-sweet taste and voluminous texture of warm blood still lingered in her mouth and throat. It was warm velvet on a cool day; it was silk sheets on her naked skin; it was life.

"Yeahh…" Jack said, as if experiencing her emotions and feelings vicariously. "Aw, yeahh… Hell yeah, you're feeling it. I can see it in your eyes. You're a born-again predator. Feeling that blood bubblin' inside you, lifting you up. That's it, kid, that's what it's all about right there."

She glanced down at the man, now slumped on the ground against his car. "Is he…"

"He'll be fine. He probably won't even notice those marks in the morning."

"He saw me," she gasped suddenly.

Jack shook his head. "Maybe he did. But he won't remember anything from the last few minutes. It'll all be a haze. You just make sure the next time you do it to keep in mind he's got only so much to give. So! What does the little conscience bug inside of you say now?"

"I don't know yet," she replied truthfully, "but it does feel… good…"

"Alright now," he said, apparently satisfied with her response, "you got the blood, you're feeling all kickass, feelin' better than your best day livin'—but wait! It gets better! All Kindred… Kindred, that's, uh, our word for vampire… all Kindred have a few things in common, things that set them right square above humans on the food chain."

"Like what?" Lotta asked, still fascinated by how energized and alert she felt.

"Like sharper senses, a body that can take a beating, _and_ , if you play your cards right: eternal life. That's no sure bet but still, a chance at immortality is not a bad deal. And that's just starters – fringe benefits for joinin' the club."

"So I'm… going to live forever…?"

"Well, you can still be destroyed, but forget the books and movies. Garlic? Worthless. A cross? Pfft. Shove it right up their ass." He chuckled at the thought. "A stake? Only if it catches you in the heart, and then it just paralyzes you, as you no doubt discovered earlier. Running water? No problem. I bathe… er…. occasionally. Now a shotgun blast to the head: ugh, that's trouble, boy. Fire? That's _real_ trouble. Sunlight? Well, you catch a sunrise and it's all over kiddo, get it?"

"I think so."

"Okay now—" Whatever Jack was going to say next was interrupted by the sound of squealing tires, sliding vehicle doors opening, and then the unmistakable report of rapid gunfire. Jack bared his fangs, seeming just slightly annoyed if not anxious for the first time. "What the fuck is this?" he hissed. They were hemmed in by the walls and wooden fences of the alleyway with no clear line of sight to the gunfire. "Look," he said, pointing her to a pitted metal door in the building on the opposite side of the alley. "You get inside there and head upstairs. We'll meet up in a bit. I'm just gonna go see what the ruckus is."

Having lived in L.A. for the past year, Lotta wasn't completely unfamiliar with the sound of gunfire, but having it this close was new to her and she felt no need to check it out for herself. Jack's plan sounded good to her.

Inside the building, she found herself in what looked like a chop shop, judging by the various stripped car parts and equipment for quick paint jobs. The door to the stairwell was locked so she fished around in the tool cabinet on the far wall till she found what she needed. She had been locked out of her apartment way too many times in the past year not to have learned some valuable life skills along the way.

With the door lock picked, she headed upstairs only to find, to her great surprise, Jack already waiting for her. He was standing at a distance from the large windows facing out to the alley below. Judging by the noise, the gun battles were still going on all around. Spotting her, Jack beckoned. "Come over here," he whispered urgently, before adding a warning: "stay away from the windows."

Sticking to the wall of the passageway, she slid over to where he was standing.

"Nicely done," he commented, and, realizing the lock picking tools were still in her hands, she assumed he was referring to her work on the door down below. "Not exactly an angel in life, were you?"

"I had my moments," she replied simply with a little bit of both pride and shame at the same time. "So… what is it we're keeping away from the windows for?"

"Agh, it's a Sabbat raid." Jack sounded annoyed. "The Sabbat, they're uh… Hell I was hoping to spare you this shit till later. The Sabbat... ugh… well, they're mostly mindless bloodthirsty assholes. That's all you need to know for now."

"What are they doing here?" she asked quietly.

"The Sabbat got wind of the gathering here, so they figured they'd raise a little hell and put heat on the new 'Prince.'"

"What's this Prince a prince _of_?" Lotta asked out of curiosity as she tiptoed closer to the windows and cautiously peered out.

"No time for the political rundown," Jack replied. "Job one? Get out of here alive. Sabbat might be mindless, but they hit like a Mack truck, like raging savages – nothing a fledgling like you wants to mess with."

"What am I—"

"Shh, shh. Heads up," Jack interrupted, hearing something and pointing back down to the alley. "Back away."

Lotta moved back just far enough that if whoever was down below decided to look up, she could duck out of sight immediately.

Outside, three thugs had just emerged into the alleyway down below. Two were armed with submachine guns. The last carried a long, wicked-looking blade. The door in the wooden fence ahead of them swung open and the giant vampire with the executioner's sword, sunken glowing red eyes, and ape-like features emerged. The middle one of the trio pointed at the sole antagonist and gave the order to his men who proceeded to open fire.

To Lotta's surprise, the giant made no move to evade the bullets. They peppered the fence behind him and struck him in the chest and arms, yet he seemed unfazed.

Without warning, two enormous wolves emerged from around the corner, behind the thugs, each beast the size of a full-grown man. The wolves went for the armed thugs, knocking them over from behind before proceeding to crush the thugs' skulls between their ferocious jaws. It was too soon, too sudden, and just too weird to have been a coincidence, and Lotta suspected the wolves were somehow bound to the simian.

The last thug turned and yelped in horror at the sight of his two companions being mangled to pieces by wild beasts in the heart of Los Angeles. He ran. Right into the giant. In response, the Prince's executioner calmly raising one of his paws to his lips. A moving hazy cloud had emerged from his sleeve and gathered in the palm of his hand. As he blew, the mist swelled in size, rushing towards the charging thug as if carried by a strong gust of wind. The mist seemed to slow as it collided with the thug, but, as Lotta continued watching in morbid fascination, the thug appeared to disintegrate before her eyes, and it was only then that she realized that it wasn't a mist but, rather, a dense swarm of some kind of insect. The thug's mouth widened to scream but was filled with a haze of a thousand devouring bugs that clogged up his airways and consumed him from inside. He was dead by the time he hit the ground and the insects continued their feast.

The threat over, the giant suddenly looked up to where Lotta was hiding. Their eyes made contact and Lotta found herself gazing into a bottomless red pit. For the umpteenth time that night, she knew fear, but this fear was different. She could sense something deadly and terrible within the ogre – something even worse than the wolves he had somehow summoned and the plague of insects in the cloud that had completely consumed the last thug.

Thankfully, the Prince's executioner did nothing. Instead he turned and headed back the way he had come. Lotta turned back to Jack who, while having also witnessed the ridiculously short skirmish, had not caught that moment when Lotta had been trapped in the beast's gaze.

"Dumb frenzied Sabbat bastards," Jack swore, summoning her back out of her daze. "Alright. I know for a fact there are a bunch more of 'em lurking around outside, so we gotta vamoose out the back, quick." He led the way around the corner. "Now if you want a lesson on how really _not_ to act, take notes from those Sabbat assholes," he explained as they headed through the door ahead and into the office beyond. "You're a biig baad vampire… yeah, great, congrats. Now keep it to yourself. You go roar and beat your chest, and that's what you can expect." Lotta guessed he was referring to what had happened to those three thugs at the hands of the executioner.

"So no paying a visit to those bullies from my high school days, then," she joked, surprising herself by her humor. She suspected her recent bloody hydration had something to do with her newfound bravado. It was a bit, she realized, like having a teensy bit too much alcohol in the system. "That doesn't sound like any of the vampire shows I've ever watched," she commented. "Why _don't_ vampires show themselves?"

"Same reason you don't let humans see you feeding," Jack said simply. "It's why the wolf doesn't want the sheep to know he's there. It's also why you don't go jugglin' dumpsters or outrun the 8:15 from Sacramento. And it's… it's why you didn't know _any_ of this when you woke up this morning."

And for the first time, all that talk of laws and rules back in the theatre began to make sense. "Ah," Lotta gave a quick but muted exclamation. "I think I'm starting to get it."

"Keep our secret secret and you make things easier on all of us," Jack continued. "We're living in the age of cellphone cameras; fuckups ain't tolerated. Makes sense enough, right? Well, it ain't a casual thing for a fledgling like you."

"What do you mean?"

"That party back there – with the guy in the suit and the Magilla Gorilla – the assholes that put your sire to death: that's the Camarilla." Jack gave a grunt of disapproval. "They make a tidy business out of enforcing 'vampire laws' like this one."

"But you said this is something we should _all_ follow." Lotta was confused. "Doesn't that make them, like, the vampire 'good guys'?"

"Mmf. Yeah." Jack didn't sound impressed with her supposition. "I'll tell you what I think some other time, maybe. I like to let people form their own opinions." But it was already fairly clear to Lotta what his opinion was.

"So what's next?" she asked.

"Alright. Now, don't worry cuz I know the area a little. And you know what? I'm glad we're in this situation, you and I. It illustrates a point: you gotta utilize your surroundings."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"You do what you gotta do. Theft, destruction of property, breaking and entering. Heh. These'll be the least of your sins before the night's out. So look around here. Must be a key someplace for that door there." He gestured with his head at the other door to the office. Judging by the card reader on the wall beside it, it was magnetically sealed. "You find that keycard and head out back. I'll meet you out in the alley there. I'm gonna check out things from topside." With that, Jack was gone the way they had come, leaving her to explore the room on her own.

The office was simple and mostly bare. Cheap stained carpeting, cabinets on the wall below a framed certificate of listed registrations and licenses for the chop shop down below when it was pretending to be a mechanic's auto shop by day, an old heavily-stained brown loveseat beneath yet another framed certificate of some sort that was too smudged to be legible, a fallen and faded take out menu on the floor, a table by the window overlooking the chop shop's garage littered with empty liquor bottles, a desk in the corner with an incredibly old 486 desktop computer, and a safe beside it beneath a sheet of yellow notepaper stapled to the wall just beside the poster of some gothic metal band with the charming title, _Die My Darling_.

After verifying that the other door leading out was indeed locked tight, Lotta checked the drawers of both tables but found no sign of the keycard. Turning to the curious piece of notepaper attached to the wall, Lotta saw the words 'password: chopshop' conveniently written down. The safe didn't have a combination set of tumblers, which meant that it was likely wired to the computer somehow… which meant she had a fairly good idea what the written password was for.

"If only the rest of my life were so simple," she murmured, turning on the screen to the computer. The owner hadn't even bothered to switch the computer off. Lotta located the program for opening the safe and disengaged the locks with the password that had been so conveniently provided to her. Inside the safe, she found what she was looking for. Apparently that was all the otherwise empty safe had been for. No wonder the owner hadn't bothered to put even the slightest bit of effort in relocating the written password.

Through the magnetic door, unlocked with the use of the newfound card, Lotta found herself heading down a narrow flight of stairs that opened out into yet another alleyway, this one narrower than the last. She stepped out, expecting to find Jack waiting for her once again. Instead she heard a burst of gunfire coming from down the alleyway. She turned to see the two armed thugs at the exact same moment that she felt the searing pain in her chest as bullets ripped into her body. She pulled back into the doorway with a hiss of pain – a strange sound that she never even knew she was capable of making.

She heard a brief commotion and then the gunfire stopped. She peered out once more to find one thug gone and the other flying across the alley towards her where he crashed to the ground and slid to a stop. At the origin of his rather impressive flight path stood none other than Jack, a large nine-and-a-half-inch combat blade in his hand.

"Fuckin' waste of unlife, these Sabbat vatos," he spat disdainfully, as he walked towards her, noticing the bloodless holes in her ripped up blouse. "You get winged?" he commented, coming closer and giving the wounds a closer inspection. "Hehey! Look at them potholes!" he joked. "Those'll close up soon enough," he reassured her. "Better feed though." He sniffed the night air. "There's someone down the stairs here," he pointed to the steps leading down to the basement entrance of the nearby building. "Not the freshest catch but he'll do."

"Not the freshest catch?" Yet another puzzle. "What's the difference?" Lotta asked. "Blood's blood, right?"

"Well, when it comes to feeding, it's _quality_ blood you're looking for, not quantity," Jack explained. "Bums and lowlife don't pack the same punch that a healthy well-bred human will. Juicebags with a pedigree: that's the good stuff. But you gotta take what you can get." He shrugged. "You ever had a Ph.D, kid?" he said rhetorically. "Ooh, that's the good stuff."

"Ph.D? I'd have thought you'd say vegan."

"Oh, they may have the cleanest blood, but you ever heard that term 'lifeblood'? _That's_ what you're drinking."

"If you say so…" Lotta said, not entirely convinced.

"Remember what I said though," Jack added. " _Don't_ kill them… least not the innocent ones. You're a monster now, make no mistake – one of the damned and the fallen. You need to hold onto every last shred of humanity you have."

"Well what happens if I… if what happened in the parking lot happens again and there's no one around to stop me from getting… overzealous?"

"It's like any _human_ doing something horrible, only double for you. You kill one, even a worthless bum, even by accident, and it's gonna cost you a piece of your own humanity – bring you closer to that Beast you got welling up inside you."

"'Beast'? What exactly does that mean?"

"The Beast… it's always there, waiting to take over." Jack grew more serious and solemn as he explained. "When it does, it's like a wild animal wearin' your skin – desperate, scared, reckless. She'll do anything to survive and it's _you_ that has to deal with the consequences after."

"So. No killing. Got it." Lotta frowned, suddenly confused. "What about those two you just… or the other three the big guy killed. Wouldn't those—"

"Uh uh uh!" Jack halted her with his punctuated rebuttal. "I said _innocent_ people. If some asshole levels a twelve gauge your way, you drain him, skin him, and bash in his skull. Self-preservation is a vital part of humanity after all. My favorite part, in fact."

"How does that work, exactly? Isn't killing killing?"

"Look, I'm not good with equations and math and shit. What I know, I know from experience. Kill only when you need to… and trust me, there are going to be a lot of times you're gonna need to. That's how you win your struggle with the Beast. Oh and don't go hungry. That'll send you off the deep end too. It's a fine line."

"No kidding," Lotta sighed, recalling the exquisite and mind-shattering sensations she had experienced earlier while realizing that it had essentially come at the cost of the man's own consent and dignity – she had literally forced herself on him like some lowlife rapist. And now she was about to do it again.

"Careful," Jack added in warning as she headed down to where her next victim was waiting, "he's gonna drain fast."

The man huddled in a corner next to the door at the bottom of the staircase was homeless, swaddled in filthy clothes, a worn out red scarf, and an ugly grey knit cap. As she approached, he looked up at her and she saw his eyes widen with fear just like the last one. Lotta couldn't tell what it was about her that had spooked him so. Didn't she just look like an ordinary woman? Whatever the reason, he tried futilely to retreat further into his corner. "I ain't done nothing…" he pleaded. "Leave me alone…"

Lotta took another step forward, then stopped, and realized she couldn't do it – not to someone who already had the worst of life thrown at him. The wounds in her chest burned, but didn't feel anything like how she imagined bullets in one's chest should have felt like. She suspected she'd live. This man didn't need to suffer on her behalf. She turned and headed back to Jack.

"I couldn't… _won't_ … do it," she explained. "Not if I can help it."

"Taking my advice a little too far, aren't you?" he said, before shrugging. "It's your call. Just know that one day you may not have that luxury."

"This may sound silly but are there… other alternatives? Besides human blood, that is?"

"Well, there are some rats down the way," he pointed towards the darkened end of the alley. Lotta shot him a skeptical but dirty look. "You think I'm kidding?" said Jack. "You can survive feeding on animals… if you can't stomach that kind of thing." He made a brief retching sound. "Well, give it a try."

"I can't… catch diseases, can I?"

"Nothing worse than what you already have." Lotta stared at him. "I'm joking," he reassured her. "The worst you're gonna get out of biting into a filthy rat is a small dose of self-loathing."

Lotta retreated to the end of the alleyway which, though unlit, appeared more than adequately illuminated to her heightened senses. Near a dumpster, she spotted a rat chewing on some old half-eaten morsel of food. She could feel the throbbing in its veins, could sense the life energy in it – energy that could be hers. All she needed to do was grab it and…

Jack burst out laughing when she returned empty-handed and still in pain from her recent wounds. "Just couldn't bear it, huh?" he chuckled. "Ahh, it's okay," he reassured her. "'Polite' Kindred society looks down on that kind of thing anyway."

"I don't blame them," Lotta commented.

"Well, I think we've overstayed our welcome in this spot. If you're not going to slake the thirst, then we need to be going. Just around the corner there's a… hold on." Jack's voice dropped in volume.

"What is it?" Lotta asked.

"Keep it down," he whispered, sniffing the air. "Got someone around the way here." He pointed around the corner from where they stood.

Lotta peered around the corner. "Just one guy?" she whispered, trying to spot the troublemaker.

"Not too much of a threat by himself," said Jack, "but you never know if there's more in shouting range. We're gonna have to sneak past." Looking around the corner, Jack pointed across the alley to the building on the opposite side. "The building across from us with the garage door. There's some double doors on the far side. Just stay low and stick to the shadows. Don't let him see you."

The space between the buildings was dimly lit by weak lights spaced too far away from one another. Occupying the space was an old convertible, a couple of large wooden crates, and a forklift.

"Alright. Let's go," said Jack, as he made use of the shadows, moving from cover to cover.

As Lotta followed, she noticed the one Sabbat at the far end of the alley. He looked skittish, his head whipping in every direction as if he were afraid he would be attacked at any moment. All around, there were still sporadic sounds of gun battles and a fair amount of howling and shouting from the ill-disciplined Sabbat. An explosion erupted a block away, distracting the guard. Seizing the opportunity, Jack raced to the double doors around the corner of the building ahead. It was a sudden burst of speed Lotta hadn't been expecting. It almost seemed as if Jack crackled with energy moments before he became a speeding blur that covered the remaining distance to the doors ahead in less than half a second.

Without Jack's abilities, Lotta had to be more careful. Waiting till she was sure the one Sabbat guard was preoccupied with the exploded vehicle or whatever it was that had combusted, Lotta ran the last few strides. Jack was already waiting inside.

"Keep it quiet," he said, as she reached him. "They're inside here. Seems that shovelhead outside just got separated from his pack. He's wounded too. You oughta take care of him. Learn what it's like while the picking's good."

"What?!" Lotta nearly shouted before catching herself.

"Don't worry, he's probably greener than you."

Lotta was still disturbed by the casualness with which Jack had just suggested she kill someone else, but his inference piqued her interest.

"What makes you think that?" she asked.

"The Sabbat, you see, they don't have the most rigorous training program," he explained. "In fact, that poor sod is lucky if he knows he's a vampire."

"How's that even possible?"

"He was probably just turned and beaten over the head. They like to do that – make shock troops. Cannon fodder. It'll be better to just put him out of his misery."

"But if what you've said is true, then… that could easily have been me."

Jack shrugged. "He's not. And if he survives tonight, he's gonna be a threat to every Kindred out there. The moment he decides to do something reckless and make the headlines… we're all going to have to pay for it." Lotta still looked hesitant. "Look, I'll cover you this one time. But so long as you've got debts to pay to our so-called Prince, you can be sure death is gonna come knocking. You just better be sure it's not your door he's at. Now hang here for a second. I'll be back."

Jack exited the beginning. Lotta heard a single muted thud, and in a few seconds he was back. He handed her a rusty tire iron. Lotta considered resisting but thought better of it and accepted the makeshift weapon.

"That's that," said Jack. "Poor sod wasn't even a Kindred. The Sabbat do that sometimes – treat the whole Embrace as some kind of reward for good work."

"Now what?" Lotta sked.

"Well it sounds like we got another pack moving in. The Sabbat're goin' all out. You better head underground, avoid stray bullets." He pointed at a nearby door. "Head down into the basement, through the grate in there. And keep that tire iron handy. I'll join you in a minute."

Lotta found the grating with little trouble. What was more problematic was that this part of the building was clearly not meant for everyday urban spelunkers. This was maintenance-only territory. She grimaced and headed down.

Down below it was all pipes and valves and old crates. Lotta had just navigated her way through the furniture when Jack caught up with her.

"Not sure what's goin' on," he admitted. "Sounds like the Sabbat's getting' scattered. I think they might be clearing out. No need to go stirring up the hornets' nest till we know the score, though. Through that next door you'll come to an elevator. Take it up to the first floor. I'll meet you there. Don't let 'em catch ya."

Lotta carried on alone. The basement was dingy, damp, and the only sounds to accompany her were that of faint dripping from leaky pipes. She found the elevator without incident and hit the switch to call the elevator cart.

Everything had been going fine so far, but it all changed when the door opened. She couldn't tell who was more surprised: herself or the thug with the uzi standing inside. For a long moment, both just stared at each other, wide-eyed. Then she saw the gun in his hand move and she reacted.

The tire iron connected with his cheek with so much force that she thought she actually heard the bone crack. The visible indentation in his face made him look almost like some mannequin. With the odd-looking hole in it, his it didn't even look real anymore – almost as if it were made of plastic, as if he were no longer a human being.

And with that thought, Lotta took a step closer and brought the tire iron down again amidst his flailing limbs. Then again. Once more, and his movements stopped. His body jerked on the fourth strike but he was silent.

When the elevator had risen one floor and the doors opened again, Lotta found herself face-to-face with Jack, who had returned from whatever task had called him away earlier. He seemed in a good mood and even laughed.

"Fucking _humans_ ," he chuckled. "Gangbangers 'protectin' their turf. Ah man." He sighed good naturedly at himself. "I'm here thinkin' it's Sabbat moving up in there… it's the fuckin' locals about to take one for the hood and…" He noticed the body lying at Lotta's feet for the first time. "Mmm, a little overzealous," he mused, noticing the bludgeoned man's face, "but, hey, it was him or you."

Lotta realized she was still clutching the tire iron tightly in her hand and released her grip as the reality of the situation sunk in. The tool clanged noisily on the elevator floor.

"Ah, you'll get used to it," Jack reassured her. He bent down and picked up the tire iron, handing it back to her. "You probably don't want to leave fingerprints for the cops to find though."

Lotta reluctantly reclaimed ownership of the murder weapon, blood still decorating the tool-end of it. "So…" She paused and took a breath. "So what happened with the rest of them?"

"The stragglers?" said Jack. "They won't be a problem anymore."

"So… it's finished?"

"That's it, kiddo," Jack affirmed. "Just like that and it's all over. Everyone slinks back to their corners of the city for the night."

"And this is… normal?"

"To be honest, you came along at an… interesting time. The Camarilla, the Sabbat… In L.A. these are the new kids on the block. There's already plenty'a Kindred had stakes down in California _long_ before them. Now we got every ancient Kindred rivalry playing out all over the city. A lotta tension out there. Llllotta jittery, high strung predators clingin' to their little pieces of eternity. One power struggle packed onto another."

"I'm not sure I—" Lotta started saying before they heard a short blast of a taxi horn.

"I think they're looking for you outside," said Jack. "Guess you got a cab to catch. Was hoping to fill you in on a little more but… hell, you'll figure it out."

"So they're just going to… drop me off somewhere in Santa Monica?"

"If you make it back," said Jack, ignoring her last question, "stop in at the Last Round. It's this bar downtown here; I'll fill you in on the politics. Now _that's_ the stuff that'll kill ya."

With a last parting wish of luck, Jack moved aside to allow her access to the main door of the building. Outside the cab was waiting to take her new home. She got into the car, closed the door, and stared out of the window as the city raced by like memories of her previous life, now rapidly fading into the distance.

* * *

Random Notes:

1\. The dead vampire in this chapter didn't burst into cinders unlike in the game. My understanding is that in VtM, vampire bodies get frozen in age to the time of their first death, and that time catches up when they die as vampires. The vampire in this prologue wasn't alive for that long, so he didn't crumble to ashes or burst into cinders. I think VtmB just used that animation to simplify things.

2\. Did the protagonist actually have penetrative sex with the vampire in the game? I argue yes, judging by the dozen-or-so open packets of contraceptives. From what I've been reading about VtM lore online, it appears that vampires can pump blood into the required parts to fake body heat and, I guess, also make the requisite organs tumescent. Yes, I know that's a really awkward and weird note to make, but I have seen debates online about whether VtM vampires actually can have or even want to have sexual relations with others.

3\. There are going to be a whole lot of biological issues like this that are easy to gloss over or not even think about in a video game or pen-and-paper but that I feel have to be addressed for the sake of plausibility in a novel. I'll be interested to hear your thoughts, especially those of you who are more familiar with VtM lore.


	2. Chapter 1: Through the Looking Glass

**PART I: THE LADY BY THE SEA**

 **Chapter One: Through the Looking Glass**

Her 'new' apartment turned out to be a very old apartment – part of a dingy complex literally tucked away in a back alley of Santa Monica off Main Street. An old bed with a stained mattress without any sheets; a functioning CRT TV; a battered blue desk with a laptop sitting atop it that looked almost as ancient as the desk itself; moldy carpeting with an actual hole right in the center of it, crudely covered up by three thin wooden boards lain down one atop the other; a grubby kitchen with an ugly yellow refrigerator, a soot-stained formerly-white stove and oven, cabinets with most of their doors either missing or unhinged, and a large radio set; a thoroughly unclean bathroom with a mirrorless cabinet, a stained porcelain sink and toilet, and a shower cubicle with cheap blue plastic shower curtains; a series of windows on one side of the room that peeked out of the alley to the multi-storied medical clinic across the road beyond; and to top it all off, leftovers from the previous tenant: some cheap toothbrushes with hotel toothpaste, a bottle of shampoo and another of conditioner (both also hotel-issued), an ugly square-faced wristwatch lying carelessly behind the toilet, and several boxes of uneaten pizza. Amazingly, the pizza hadn't rotted yet, suggesting that whoever had lived in the apartment before her hadn't been gone long.

The most egregious thing about the apartment wasn't the horrendous state of disrepair it was in, however, but, as Lotta soon found out, the lack of curtains. When dawn arrived, barely two hours after she had made herself at home (as best she could), she had nearly gotten burnt to a crisp when ambient sunlight found its way into the alley and through the many windows on the eastern-facing side of the apartment.

Fortunately, there was one advantage of living in a complex hidden away from the world in an alley, namely that no direct sunlight could penetrate any of the rooms. Even so, the light that did enter caused enough discomfort to force her to retreat into the dirty bathroom where she huddled on the floor, whimpering in pain and about the wretchedness of her new unlife until she fell into an uncomfortable, nightmare-filled sleep that ended only much later that night when the last rays of sunlight were long gone.

Able to continue her search of the room, Lotta discovered several more thin wooden boards slid between the refrigerator and the wall – probably placed there in storage in case more holes emerged and needed to be covered up. She used those to block as many windows as she could. It wasn't completely enough, but it would provide her with enough shade to actually use the disgusting mattress to sleep on the next morning – a prospect that no longer seemed quite as revolting given where she had just spent the day.

She flicked the switch to the room's lighting and was greeted by the illumination provided by a single uncovered light bulb in the center of the completely stripped ceiling. By the added light, Lotta reinvestigated the contents of the desk she had only briefly skimmed over the night before.

The note written on cheap yellow notepaper on her desk now seemed far more ironic than the previous night. "Hey," it began. "The password for your computer is 'sunrise'. Keep the cash in the drawer. It's yours. I'll drop you an email this Friday once my schedule's been fixed so we can meet." It was signed "Mercurio" – the person the Prince had told her to meet. The money was tucked away in a single envelope – one hundred dollars in four twenties, a ten, and two fives. It wasn't much but it was more than she'd had on her when she'd been fired from her job the previous evening.

Next to the cheap notepaper was a much more formal looking card, initialed in calligraphy with the letters M.S.T.; it was easily the classiest looking object in the room. It was also the most cryptic. She had read it the night before. Now, having had a day to ponder over it in her restless slumber, Lotta still couldn't make heads or tails over it other than that it was some kind of invitation. She reread the note.

 _At your convenience, please come and visit me in my home downtown. I leave you this to guide you._

 _Dark blood, our curse,_

 _A light this verse._

 _Such power I sense in one so young,_

 _Come find me where burns the mystical sun._

 _M. Strauss, Tremere Regent_

The laptop had given no further clues as to who this M. Strauss was or what being a 'Tremere Regent' meant. An internet search turned up nothing. The email account on the laptop had already been set up for her, though she took umbrage at her username: suckhead. That and the bitter irony of the password Mercurio had given her.

Three emails awaited her, though none of them gave any clarification as to the mysterious 'Tremere Regent'. The first email was entitled "A reminder" from someone named LaCroix – a name that sounded classy enough that Lotta suspected it to belong to the Prince. In the email, LaCroix instructed her to meet with Mercurio without delay. After what Jack had told her about her precarious position as a 'fledgling' Kindred, she suspected it would not be wise to disregard the message.

The other two were less consequential. Even without opening it, she guessed the first was about penis enlargement just by the word 'big' and the number of exclamation marks in the email header. The second came from an akilpatrick dirtcheapinternet.v. It seemed strange that the email should have found its way to her, unless her new email account was, like the apartment, the former property of someone else. Lotta gave the email a quick read-through:

 _Looking for that lazy ass ex-husband who's late on his alimony payments? How about that jerk who knocked you up? Look no further! With Arthur Kilpatrick's Amazing Krime-Puter, you can find almost anyone with a record, and these days that's just about everyone! So come on down to Arthur Kilpatrick's Bail Bonds! If you've got a dead beat, we've got the technology to find him!_

"Sounds good, Arthur," Lotta murmured out loud. "Except the jerk who knocked me up disappeared on me years ago, the baby never made it, my second jerk had his head chopped off, and now I'm the spawn of the devil."

Lotta knew it was in her best interest to do something other than mope around the apartment, but she still hadn't quite gotten over everything that had happened to her in the last two days. And she wasn't even able to bring herself to contemplate the implications of her new existence as a creature of the night. All she could think about – all she saw when she closed her eyes – were the two men she had attacked the previous night: the wealthy car owner whom she'd nearly drained as she'd consumed his lifeblood and the thug whom she'd bludgeoned to death with as much as ease as breaking apart a piñata.

Prior to the previous night, she hadn't hurt a fly in her life, at least not on purpose. And now, within a day, she had broken into an owned business (illegal or not), been shot multiple times, sucked the blood out of someone, and murdered another. And the most frightening thing was how easy all of that had been. Even the bullet wounds… She ran a hand over her chest. The wounds from the previous night had vanished completely without leaving so much as a scar, as had the burns on her skin that she had inherited from indirect exposure to sunlight earlier that morning.

She wondered when she would feel that faintness again, telling her it was time to feed on some hapless human being once more. She didn't feel weak, but what she did feel was a longing that hadn't been there the previous night. Now that she'd had a taste – no, more than a taste: an experience – she craved for it once more. It made her feel like some kind of nymphomaniac, only hungry for blood rather than sex, and she didn't like it one bit.

But even if she managed to suppress her lust for blood, the fact remained that she needed it to survive now. And that meant that every night, or for however long she could stave it off until, she was going to have to assault someone – track them down, hunt them like prey, isolate them, and then, when they were at their most vulnerable, attack. If there were a better way that didn't involve her blatantly transgressing her most fundamental code of ethics, Lotta couldn't see it. Who would _voluntarily_ allow themselves to be fed on by a vampire, after all? And besides, the rules that governed Kindred society also meant that there shouldn't even be people like that who existed at all – who knew anything about the real existence of vampires… well, perhaps with the exception of the conspiracy theorists.

Speaking of which… Lotta had turned the radio on when she'd first awoken. One of her favorite late night radio shows back when she'd been working graveyard shifts at hotel front desks had been 'The Deb of Night.' It was hosted by a friendly-yet-sultry-voiced radio show host with an uncanny penchant for innuendo who inevitably ended up attracting some of the most bizarre callers to her show on a nightly basis – everything from sleazy, horny men, worked up by her voice and sexual intimations as if her words were meant specifically for them, to crazy conspiracy theorists… well, one in particular… with endless tales of paranoia and impending doom, who found a sympathetic, if amused, ear in the late night radio hostess. Her show was always entertaining and it had kept Lotta from falling asleep on the job one too many times. Now it gave her a sense of normalcy, as if nothing had changed from two nights ago.

Now, Deb's crooning voice filled the air of the dilapidated apartment. Considering that Deb's show only came on at three in the morning, Lotta realized, with a start, that she must have been moping around in her apartment for hours already. She'd been so consumed by her thoughts that she'd almost lost the entire night.

"Hello L.A., you're up way past your bedtime, aren't you?" said Deb. "Hope you've slipped into something comfortable. I know I have." There it was: innuendo _numero uno_ even before the first minute was up.

"I knew I could count on you, Deb," said Lotta, as if to an old, trusted, dependable friend.

"If you're new to town or just new to this whole radio thing," Deb continued, "you're listening to 'The Deb of Night' – the only girl who'll spend the night with you and leave first thing in the morning, guaranteed. Well, looks like the boards are lighting up! Aren't I the popular one?" Not surprising. Lotta could bet they were all men, too. "Let's see, eenie, meenie, miny, moe, who will be the lucky… Caller! You've got the first shot at Deb tonight! So who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

"Hi Deb," came the slightly nervous voice on the other end of the line. "This is, uh… Vigo."

 _Poser_ , Lotta thought to herself immediately.

"Vigo?" It sounded like Deb had figured it out as quickly as Lotta had. But Lotta knew Deb. She'd play along. That was how she got her ratings, after all. "So… _Vigo_ ," Deb said in what was a half-seductive half-facetious tone, "why are _you_ up so late?"

"Uhm, I'm working the late shift here at the… uh, yacht club."

 _Lie number two_.

"uhhhuh?" Deb voiced her skepticism in a way that somehow sounded like affirmation. Vigo was clueless. "How many boats do you own, Vigo?" Deb asked, somehow without even a hint of sarcasm.

"Two… actually three. Um, one is… in the shop."

"I used to do a little yachting myself. What brand of yacht do you have?"

 _That's it girl, catch the bastard with his pants down_.

"Um… you probably wouldn't know the brand, I uh… bought them in Italy."

"Ah, _la Italia bella_ ," Deb said hamming up an accent. " _Parlate Italiano_?"

"Um..." He paused for way too long. "Yes," he finally offered lamely.

 _Nice try, Vigo_.

" _Arrivederci_ , Vigo," said Deb, ending the incredibly painful conversation that Lotta knew happened only too often. "Caller two, you're on 'The Deb of Night.' Be gentle."

"Hi Deb."

"Hello caller."

"Hi Deb."

"Is tonight a re-run?" Deb chuckled.

"Deb?"

"Caller number three, what's keeping _you_ up tonight?"

"Deb, listen to me, Deb. They're at it again and people have got to know," came a highly agitated voice of someone Lotta guessed was in his mid to late twenties. And Lotta suspected she knew who it was. "They've got to know because they don't know, they won't report this stuff on the news because they _own_ the news!"

"Hello, Gomez," said Deb. "What's the latest conspiracy?"

"Conspiracy? This goes beyond conspiracy, okay? There is no word for something as devious and secret as this, you understand? People need to hear this, they need to know the real story!"

"You've got our undivided attention."

"Alright, as we all know, the Americans established a Moon base back in the late seventies, that's no secret. But what most people don't know is that they have been conducting a dig. Not for resources, but for artifacts."

"I see!"

"Well, it's no coincidence that the Chinese have started conducting space missions. You know why? I'll tell you why. The reason is because the Chinese are trying to stop the Americans from finding an ancient space probe sent by the Beta-Centaurians. And why? Because the Beta-Centaurians are giving space technology to the Chinese to get back at the Andromedans – a.k.a. the Greys – for giving space technology to the Americans in the fifties."

"Fascinating."

"The American government's been putting more money into space. Don't you see what's happening? I can't believe I'm the only one that's figured it out! Am I the only person alive that can see what's going on? It's because the Andromedans and the Betas are going to be fighting their war in this galaxy through us, Deb. And the American people, the people of Earth, you people, cannot let this happen! It's Mu versus Atlantis all over again!"

"Thank you, Gomez," said Deb, ending the call. "And that concludes the news portion of the show," she joked. "Well, this girl's gotta pay her bills so it's time for a few commercials. But don't go anywhere. I'm just getting warmed up. Or should I say… _hot_ …"

Lotta sighed. Listening to Deb's voice and her usual banter with her callers was a breath of warm, comforting nostalgia. It was almost as if it were two days ago before all of this madness. Same show. Same host. Same kooky callers. Same repartee. Deb's show went on as it always had, night after night without fail. It was almost as if nothing had changed.

But everything _had_ changed. Everything else, that is.

Lotta glanced at the wristwatch she had retrieved from the bathroom. She still had around four hours to go till sunrise; three-and-a-half if she wanted to be safe.

At that realization, it was as if a switch had suddenly flipped in her head, and Lotta began to feel restless. After all those hours distracted and lost in a daze, her awareness of her heightened senses came rushing back in. She saw every detailed crease, crack, and stain on every surface in the apartment. She smelled the must and mold. She heard the faint skittering of insectoid feet below the floor boards. She felt nothing, not a single movement of the still air around her, and she knew she needed to get out of there – needed to breathe in the fresh air – or at least as fresh as it got in Santa Monica.

Lotta clambered her way out the door, down the short, narrow corridor, down an equally narrow flight of stairs, and out into the alleyway. The air was cool here, or at least cooler than it had been in the staleness of the apartment. The dim street lamps of the road at the end of the alley beckoned.

Lotta was about to head to the light when a voice called from behind her.

"Hey..." Another homeless man. He reminded Lotta of the other one she had met downtown the previous night. His accent suggested he wasn't a native of the area. "Hey, lady. You got some change, lady?"

Lotta turned to him and immediately caught the smell of the pulsing life emanating from his throbbing arteries and veins. "Hungry, huh," she found herself saying. "I am too…" It was only the realization that she was starting to salivate – not enough to actually embarrass herself, but sufficient for her to notice the added moisture in her mouth – that gave her sudden pause.

 _Holy shit. Lotta, you Pavlovian bitch!_ she berated herself. _Pull yourself together_.

She took a deep breath. Then dug in her pocket for a five.

She smiled at him – poor, clueless, innocent man that he was – and handed him the bill. "Here, it's not much," she said, "but I hope it helps."

The man's eyes widened, first in surprise – that she would be so forthcoming – then in gratitude. "That's very nice, thank you," he said clumsily. With that, he stumbled off, though whether to buy food or something else, Lotta couldn't tell.

Once he was out of sight, she headed out of the alley, past a row of palm trees marking the apparently gentrified nature of this part of town, with her apartment on one side of the alley and the luxury apartments on the other where the trees were located.

By the light of the insect-swarmed street lamps, Lotta took in her surroundings. To her left, pretty much next to her apartment building but occupying the marginally more valuable real estate by the main road leading into an underpass: Trip's Pawnshop. 'Instant Cash. Buy. Sell. Trade.' Lotta found herself fiddling with the bills in her pocket. How long would the remaining $95 in her possession last? She didn't exactly need to buy groceries anymore. And, to her knowledge, the apartment was paid for (it _better_ have been, given its condition). Still, one could never tell. Perhaps she'd have to pay a trip to Trip's at some point… pawn off that watch.

Directly across the street from Trip's stood Devil's Brand Tattoo at the street level of a block of more apartment units. Next to that was the three-storied medical clinic. Directly on her right, beginning with the palm trees were the Santa Monica Suites. In contrast to her apartment and the pawnshop, the luxury apartments actually looked like they belonged on Main Street, what with the grand arch and curvy letters over the main door as well as the many multi-paned windows with fancy half-moon designs at their tops, trellised in the shape of setting suns. Further down the street, on the same side of the road as the clinic and tattoo parlor, Lotta could see fancy Old England brickwork and an even fancier sign that brazenly hung from a metal post next to the building reading: Gallery Noir.

There was far more foot traffic than Lotta had expected, but none of it looked to be of the savory sort: loiterers, hoboes, streetwalkers, and the odd police officer who was really there only in the event of an actual homicide or stabbing. All other minor infractions, committed by just about everyone else there, were below the notice of the officers, at least at this particular time of night and this particular part of town.

Through the night air, Lotta could smell the blood of everyone within a block-radius. She had to make a deliberate effort not to allow her thoughts to wander or her salivary glands to begin working overtime. It wasn't as hard as it had been before. Perhaps it was because she was still mostly sated from the previous night's feeding. Or perhaps she was just getting used to it. Whatever the reason, Lotta allowed herself a modicum of self-pride at not having given up control to that Beast Jack had spoken of the night before.

As she continued scanning her audience, Lotta began to realize that she could tell the difference between people based on the scent and feel of their blood. She knew who hadn't been eating well (most of them), who was suffering from an illness or who otherwise had their immune systems compromised in one way or another, who was well-fed and healthy, and who…

Lotta turned to the shady alcove of the covered walkway just outside the clinic on the ground level. Something felt different there. A man stood there in the shadows, gazing intently at her. At first, she assumed it was just someone sizing her up as a potential prostitute. There were a number of them around the streets after all. He had the jacket and pompadour of a 60s rock-and-roll star; he looked like a frat boy looking for a piece of ass but who had lost his posse in the process. Yet his amber eyes were way too intense and the slight smile on his face was… disconcerting. And, to top it all off, he wasn't even making any effort to hide his obvious interest in her.

Then he started walking towards her from across the street and Lotta panicked. She began backing away down the alley back to her apartment but then stopped as she knew she wouldn't make it in time. Besides, here she was out in the open in the light of the street lamps. The police officer was far away but he _was_ within her line of sight, which meant that she was within _his_ line of sight as well, or at least she would be if she screamed.

Unsure of what to do, Lotta waited as the jacketed loiterer reached her. The excitement on his face was obvious, and grew only more so as he neared. He looked maniacal.

"Aw man! You!" he exclaimed enthusiastically as he walked right up into her personal space, forcing her to take a step back and hit her back against one of the palm trees behind her. "You're a vampire, aren't you?!"

The man had practically shouted it and Lotta nearly bolted. How had he known? And, more importantly, how did he even know _about_ vampires?

Taken completely aback by both the man's demeanor as well as his blunt revelation, Lotta gave the only response she could think of: "What? Vampire? What are you talking about?" It was too defensive, and it had too many pretended questions in it. She knew it. And she knew he knew it. Jack's words to her about the importance of secrecy rang in her head and she immediately started imagining the Prince's executor appearing behind her and swiping her head off with a swing of his heavy sword for having foolishly revealed her identity. And on her first full night as a vampire no less!

"C'mon! You are too!" he replied, calling her bluff. But he was beaming the whole time. "Oh, man! Don't bullshit me, girl. Just come clean. I ain't gonna tell no one. It's okay! I-I just wanna talk!"

"Then talk," she said, still unwilling to lay all her cards on the table.

"Hell yeah!" He declared, coming very close to literally punching the air with his fists. To him, it was as good as a confession. "Aw man! I knew it! I just… oh geez! I _knew_ you were! I just could tell. Aw man! This is great! A-And then I saw your teeth and I was like 'Damn!' It was like I could just sense you. The name's Knox Harrington. Pleasure to meet you." And then, for good measure, he added, to himself: "Aw man!"

Instinctively, Lotta reached up to touch her fangs, wondering how it could have been that obvious. It hadn't _seemed_ that obvious when she'd looked at her reflection in the mirror earlier that night.

"How do you know about… this?" she asked, starting to get the sense that he wasn't just some ordinary human. "Are you… a vampire?"

"I'm a ghoul!" he declared happily, and Lotta was stumped. "I didn't know _any_ of this stuff until a coupla months ago when this guy just appeared and all of a sudden 'Bam! Whoa man! Vampires are real and right there in front of my eyes! Blew my goddamn mind."

Lotta decided that as tactless as this individual was, he seemed earnest and almost as new to this whole vampire business as she was – definitely more excited about it, that was for sure. But he had just thrown another wrench into her poor fractured worldview.

"What's a… ghoul?"

"Well, the way it was explained to me, whenever a vampire lets a human drink some of their 'vampire blood', the human gains a little 'vampire power'! Can heal up quick and that kinda stuff, geez aw man! Then they're a 'ghoul' and ooh watchout!"

"You certainly seem to be enjoying it," Lotta commented.

"It's awesome!" he nearly screamed. "Man, after that first taste of vampire blood, it's like the best drug, aw man, I'm telling you. It's like… well, it didn't mess me up, just made me feel like I was better at everything! I felt like a god, just sucking on this nasty dude's wrist."

At the notion that there may be another vampire prowling the streets besides herself, Lotta began to grow nervous. "Who's this 'nasty dude'?" she asked.

"Aw man, I _really_ wish I could tell you, but I-I don't think I'm supposed to. But it's really cool to be talkin' to you just, well, because I don't get a lot of chance to talk to vampires – aw man! – well, other than my master, so I thought I'd just, y'know, 'What's up!' Y'know?!"

As ingratiating as Knox was in his bubbly frat boy enthusiasm, Lotta was beginning to find him disarmingly endearing. After her narrow escape from the executioner's blade the previous night, the aloofness of the Prince, and the warning Jack had given her about what the Camarilla might do if she did anything to jeopardize the secrecy and anonymity of the Kindred amongst humankind, it was refreshing to find a fellow creature of the night who seemed so laid back. Jack had been chill with her too, but she knew from the ease with which he had dispatched those thugs the previous night that there was also a deep underlying level of danger and threat just beneath that calm exterior. There didn't seem to be any of that with Knox.

"So what are you up to in thispart of the neighborhood?" Lotta asked.

He leaned in close and, for a moment, Lotta wondered if she had made the wrong judgment call about him, but then she figured out it was so he could lower his voice conspiratorially as he told her, "Look, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I'm on a secret mission for my master." Then, just like that, he perked back up and stepped away from her. "Well, hey! Hah! It's been great talking to you, man, but I better be going – y'know, important _stuff_ to do…" Knox spun on his heel and left, leaving a very confused Lotta in his wake.

"I… uh, okay. See you around… I guess," Lotta replied in surprised at his sudden termination of the conversation.

For nearly a full minute, she stood alone on the corner of the street, still not sure what to make of this new encounter. She supposed it would be possible to run after him to learn more about this night life of vampires and ghouls, but she wasn't sure if that would be a good idea. Knox seemed like a nice enough guy, maybe missing a screw or two, but then again, her sire had seemed like a nice guy too.

With more on her mind and still no real answers, Lotta wandered the streets of Santa Monica for what remained of the night, finally returning to her apartment as the night sky began to grow visibly blue. She showered, then wondered why she'd even bothered as she collapsed on the dirty, stained mattress and fell into yet another uneasy sleep.

* * *

Random notes:

1\. Alright, I realize this chapter seems a little stilted. I had previously just lumped it together with the next chapter but thought it should stand on its own. Open to suggestions on how to make this chapter flow more smoothly from the last one and into the next one.


	3. Chapter 2: A Bounty for the Hunter

**Chapter Two: A Bounty for the Hunter**

She was up earlier the next night. But it was still a day till Friday when she was scheduled to meet Mercurio. And she was famished. The pizza she had left on the kitchen counter from the previous night had gone stale. There weren't any cockroaches feasting upon it at the moment, but Lotta was sure the pizza hadn't gone the last day unscathed. Ultimately, it didn't matter, though. As hungry as she was, Lotta felt no desire for pizza, fresh _or_ stale. She dumped the pizza in the bin.

The Nightly News on Channel 9 seemed to be a reflection of her bizarre new life when she switched on the television.

"A massive, gelatinous creature washed up on the beaches of Providence, Rhode Island, has scientists scratching their heads," the anchor reported. "Found by a jogger early on Tuesday morning who says he smelled it a mile away, the mystery creature is thought to be some form of giant octopus, though marine biologists that have examined the monster have commented that they have never seen anything like it in the cephalopod family before. They speculate that it could be from a yet undiscovered family of sea creatures."

Lotta shook her head and frowned. Had the news always been this weird or had she somehow entered the Twilight Zone after her embrace? She headed over the refrigerator, driven by her hunger and subconsciously repeating the motions she had gone through a million times as a human being. She pulled the door open… and froze at the sight that greeted her: three bags of blood of the sort used in hospitals for transfusions, stacked one atop the other. Lotta experienced a brief moment of conflict as she grappled with her hunger on the one hand and the thought that that blood no doubt belonged to another human being on the other. But it was only a brief moment.

* * *

When she came to her senses, two of the three bags were drained empty, puncture marks in them. She looked down and dropped the bags that she had been holding when she saw how blood-soaked her fingers had become.

She ran to the bathroom and nearly shrieked at the reflection of her blood-smeared face in the mirror. Her fangs were long, sharp, and very visibly protruding from her gums. Her pupils were so dilated she could barely see the whites. The creature staring back at her from the mirror wasn't Lotta. It was a monster. But as she continued staring, transfixed in morbid fascination, her pupils shrank to their normal size and her fangs began to retract slowly – nearly invisibly – until all that was left were two sharpened points barely visible behind her lips.

She rinsed herself off and then reassessed her appearance. Everything seemed more or less in place… except the bloodstains on her shirt. And suddenly, she realized she had just found yet another complication in her new life – she needed money after all. Or, at the very least, she needed her stuff. She had worn and slept in the same clothes since the previous night. Not only were they covered in splotches of human blood that didn't belong to her but they were also grimy from her bathroom floor and her dirty, stained mattress. If she was going to try to pass off as a human being, she'd still at least need to look the part. All her belongings were in a rented trailer on the other side of downtown L.A. She'd need to recover at least some of them.

Lotta removed her clothes and tried to wash out as much of the blood as possible. Then, without waiting for them to dry, dressed again, and then scoured downtown Santa Monica for over an hour before finding a thrift store. She got a few glances for her drenched appearance, especially since it was a thoroughly dry night out, but people in Santa Monica at this time of night and in this part of town weren't exactly all that normal to begin with. At least no one was giving her a look that said they suspected her of having murdered someone recently.

Buying a pair of jeans and a shitty white blouse, Lotta exited, found a nearby alley, and changed there. Another homeless man eyed her disinterestedly from the corner but his libido had long gone the way of his wealth and she needn't have worried.

Feeling a little better about herself, Lotta headed to the bus stop to catch a bus to the trailer park where she'd lived not three days ago. On the way, she passed a doomsayer carrying a picket sign stenciled with the words: 'THE END IS HERE'.

"I have seen the squirming on the horizon!" he yelled at no-one in particular as she walked by. "The worms are stripping the foulness from the skull of the Earth!" Lotta frowned in confusion at the strange analogy. What happened to the usual apocalyptical verses that she'd gotten so accustomed to over the years? "The sewers are all muddied with a thousand lowly suicides!"

Lotta was so distracted by the doomsayer that she missed the bus stop and instead found herself standing in front of a familiar store – familiar because she had received an email about it not too long ago. 'A & B Kilpatrick's Bail Bonds. Open 24 HRS,' read the sign.

Lotta remembered the email ad telling her Kilpatrick's had the database to find "that jerk" in her life. But instead of thinking once more about her sire, she found her thoughts wandering further back in time to someone else… who owed her money. As far she knew, he still lived in Santa Monica. _And_ he had a record. It was amazing she hadn't thought of this before. Checking the bus schedule, Lotta estimated she had awhile to spare before the bus arrived, so she headed on in.

The office was as dodgy as offices went. On the left side was a grubby brown couch that matched the wooden paneling of the walls. The wooden coffee table in front of the couch was littered with magazines with titles like 'Motorwhore Magazine', 'Bitch Frenzy', and 'Hooker'. Instead of proper desks, there were portable tables covered with boxes of half-eaten pizza, opened packs of chips, a microwave, a coffee maker, and a carton of donuts. Just above the tables hung FBI wanted posters. On the right-hand side were a couple of pasty-yellow filing cabinets. One of the cabinets was completely missing a drawer, and the papers that had once been stored within now lay strewn across the worn-out, cheap, rough, grey-colored carpeting.

The far wall wasn't much better: an awful-looking yellow refrigerator stood next to large boxes labeled 'FRAGILE. HANDLE WITH CARE', surrounded by large black garbage bags. On the right of the refrigerator hung a dartboard and a desk with a desktop PC on it from a bygone era that rivaled that of Lotta's laptop in her apartment. Above the computer hung a poster that read: 'Kilpatrick's KRIME-PUTER! Search a National Database for MISSING and WANTED persons! Find information on your neighbors and coworkers!'

The only occupant of the room was a man with a protruding gut, shoulder-length black hair that had been slicked back, and a short gruff moustache over a grimy five-o'clock shadow. He wore large sunglasses and an elaborately-patterned red Hawaiian shirt, opened enough at the neck to give a clear idea of just how hirsute an individual he truly was. Nothing in his appearance helped in lending the establishment the added legitimacy it so desperately needed.

"Welcome to Kilpatrick 24-Hour Bail Bonds," he said at her entrance. "My name's Arthur Kilpatrick. How can I help you?"

"Hi, I recently got one of your ads and I was hoping I could enlist some help in… finding someone."

"Sure, sure," he replied. "As long as he's got a record, and I'm betting he does, we should be able to find his last recorded address no problem."

"How much would something like that cost me?"

"Well, let's see…" He seemed to be sizing her up and Lotta was dreading the offer she suspected was coming. Instead, he said something completely unexpected. "I'm in a bit of a fix right now, and I'm actually in need of some help."

"What… kind of help?"

"Let me put it this way. I got a few bondsmen to keep this place open twenty-four hours. Plus a bounty hunter. I usually pull the graveyard shift cuz that's when all the crazy shit happens in Santa Monica. Now, on regular crazy days, I just rely on my bounty hunter to do errands for me."

"Crazy… shit?"

"Well, my business ain't bad, I can tell you that much. Santa Monica used to be pretty nice, but now it's all gone downhill. And that's put me in a good position to watch it all just slide right down the tubes, y'know what I mean?" He gave what sounded like an obnoxious cackle. "We got a much higher volume now than just a few years ago. _And_ that means we also gotta deal with a lot more bail jumpers and crap like that."

"You get a lot of bail jumpers, I assume."

"Of course. Goes with the business. That's when I sic the bounty hunter on 'em. Problem is… I can't seem to find Carson. He's gone completely dark since the beginning of the week and it's pissin' me off, to be honest. He's not picking up his phone and I really do need him back at work to find some people for me."

"Can't you just get another bounty hunter?"

"Well, I don't feel right cuttin' Carson loose just yet. We go way back. I knew his father too. _And_ , he's great at what he does, when he wants to do it. So here's what I'm asking. And I know it's a bit much just for the opportunity to use my database, so I'm going to sweeten the deal. Since I'm stuck here, I wuz thinkin' maybe you could go and look for him. Just real quick. It'll be a nice-an'-easy two hundred."

At the mention of money, Lotta became more amenable. "Not to look a gift horse in the mouth…" she said, "but you barely know me."

"Hey, what can I say? I know a trustworthy, good-lookin' woman when I see her." Lotta suspected he was thinking more about the latter than the former descriptor.

"Well, suppose I were to do this, where would I be expected to look for him?"

"I suppose the first place you should look is his apartment at the Santa Monica Suites – Apartment 1, I think it is. Maybe you'll find something there to let you know where he's got himself to. Here's a spare keycard that'll let you in." He handed her the card along with his own business card, which had his office number on it. "You're gonna need to bring him back _here_ , though," he added. "You'll be like a bounty hunter for my bounty hunter."

"I suppose I could give it a shot. But I'm no detective, just so you know."

"Honey, it's better than what I've got going on so far. You're the first decent-looking person who's walked in through that doorway in the last month, so… I'll put my chips on you."

Lotta frowned at the statement and at the pack of chips on one of the tables. She suspected Arthur hadn't mean what his words had sounded like but she was still unable to shake the image evoked by the sketchy inadvertent innuendo.

He must have seen the brief glimpse of discomfort on her face. "Hey, since you're helping me out an' all, let me do right by you. What's this feller's name you're looking for? If it's a he, that is."

"Nilson. Blake Nilson."

Arthur waddled over to his 'Krim-puter' and hammered in a few commands.

"Hate to break it to ya, hon," he said after a half-minute of searching. "This case is three years old."

"I know. What does it say?"

"Hmm, let's see… in for battery… Bond: ten thousand… Surety paid in cash… threw some guy down the beach access stairs… claimed the guy was trying to buy drugs from him…"

"Is there an address?"

He scribbled the address on a piece of notepaper and handed it to her. "Here ya go."

"Thanks, Arthur. Give me a day or two. I'll see what I can dig up on Carson."

 _Guess I'm not headed back home tonight,_ she thought to herself as she exited the office.

"Every second takes us closer to the time of judgment!" came the lonesome cry of the doomsayer at the end of the street. "These streets you walk lead to the spinal columns of the Great Beast's Hall! All of you walk willingly into the Eternal Feast of the Guilty!" Lotta hurried past the prophet of doom in case he decided to single her out for a more personalized message of gloom.

* * *

The Santa Monica Suites were conveniently located right next to where she lived. If Carson was actually holed up in his apartment for one reason or another, it was possible this was going to be the easiest $200 she had ever made.

Arriving at the Santa Monica Suites, Number 24, Main Street, Lotta found herself at the imposing double doors that were nearly twice her height. Nothing screamed high status like architecture that made you feel as small as the owners and occupants thought of you. Lotta tried the handle. It was unlocked.

Inside, she was met with pristine white walls, floors tiled with three different kinds of polished stone, each a different color, indoor plants arranged at regular intervals along the length of the corridors, and classy modern tube lighting arranged unobtrusively along the joints of the ceiling and walls, and grand obsidian-colored doorways marking each luxury suite. Melancholic classical piano music was emanating from one of the apartments.

Lotta found Apartment 1 and slid the card smoothly through the card reader. The door opened into an unoccupied but stately-looking living room with an ornate plush carpet, expensive looking side tables and chairs, a small but elegant looking futon, grand curtains framing the windows, and warm lighting suffusing the room from the various lamps strategically located around the place. A laptop sat open on the coffee table with three bottles of hard liquor and a toppled shot glass beside it. In the corner stood a television sat that had been left on. Besides the expensive looking décor, the only jarring piece of adornment lay in a single poster, tacked clumsily in between two of the windows. It was of a model with large and long curly hair, wearing a red dress with a plunging neckline. In the picture, she was leaning against a stone banister, one leg raised and arched, revealing plenty of thigh through the slit in the dress. The letters in read on the top of the poster identified her as 'Imalia'. Lotta couldn't decide if the picture looked classy or tacky.

"Actor Ash Rivers is lucky to be alive after his car crashed into the gate at Paradigm studios earlier tonight," the news anchor on the television said, temporarily distracting Lotta from her main task. Ash was one of those prodigies that had gone the way so many other young celebrities had – from a breakout hit to drugs, alcohol, and partying. He'd gone from the new A-lister to a club-owning recluse whom no one ever saw during the…

"No way…" Lotta breathed.

"Witnesses say that they were shocked when the Negative Zero star emerged unscathed and apparently unfazed by his high speed accident. Rivers' agent released a statement stating that Rivers' crash was due to a mechanical problem and that the studio is not pursuing legal action against Rivers for the trademark Gate's destruction. Miraculously, this is the second crash from which Rivers has escaped unharmed in the last year."

"You gotta be shittin' me," Lotta mused out loud. Ash – a vampire? It kind of made sense. One couldn't be a celebrity and stick only to the cloak of night. Lotta began to wonder if that crash had really been a mechanical failure or if Ash had had a direct hand in it. Had he been turned against his will like Lotta herself? If so, that would explain the two crashes that by all rights should have been fatal. To be forced to give up all that fame… Of course, this was all conjecture, but if it were true, then it sounded way worse than Lotta's own situation.

"Maybe I don't have it quite so bad, after all," she said. But there would be time for further rumination later, she realized. Now she had a job to do.

"Carson?" she called. "Carson, are you in here?" She tried the two doors on either end of the room. One led to a bedroom, the other a dining room and kitchen. All were empty.

Lotta returned to the living room and booted up the computer. It was password protected. Lotta sighed. Maybe Arthur would know how to crack it. She returned to her search of the rooms. Nothing seemed particularly unusual or indicative of where Carson had gone except for a single key on top of the television set and an ancient audio recorder in one of the drawers in the bedroom. The recorder was the old-fashioned kind that needed to be plugged in to work. Man! This was supposed to be one of the wealthiest states in America, yet the technology in Santa Monica…

She rewound the tape to the beginning and hit play.

"Check check…" said a man's voice. He sounded like he was in his late twenties. "Is this thing recording? God, I hate these things." The man, presumably Carson, cleared his voice before continuing in a lower, gruffer, and supposedly more professional-sounding tone. "Anyway. The, uh, McGee case is getting weirder all the time. I found where he's been hiding and I saw some really creepy stuff down there. But there was, uh, no sign of McGee. I'm gonna follow up on another lead I got too. I've updated the files on the computer. Uh, this is Carson signing off…" Then, in his natural, relatively higher-pitched voice, self-reflexively added, "Man, that sounds stupid…"

Who was this tape for? Lotta wondered. Did Arthur require Carson to record his progress? That would make sense if Arthur was paying him by the hour or day. And if so, then there was a good chance the laptop was his. In which case, he'd probably have the password.

Lotta pocketed the cassette tape, did one more quick search of the apartment, then, convinced there didn't seem to be any further clues except for everything in that laptop, she closed down the screen and tucked the laptop under her arm.

She was about to head out the door when an idea struck her. Slowly she turned and located the poster of Imalia out of the corner of her eye.

Returning to the futon, she booted up the computer a second time and keyed in the model's name.

"Bingo!" Lotta couldn't help but exclaim under her breath with a flush of pride as she got through to the desktop screen. A very prominent folder entitled 'McGee' sat right smack at the center of the desktop screen. In it she found several notepad documents, each labeled with its own date. The most recent document had only two lines. They were brief notes made by Carson:

 _McGee's hiding in the tattoo parlor on Main Street._

 _Key on top of TV_

"So that's what you're for," Lotta said to the key she had pocketed. She skimmed through the other dated documents but it was all information leading up to locating McGee's hiding place: the tattoo parlor.

Lotta felt a coldness settle in the pit of her stomach as she recalled Carson's description of the place. Maybe this whole hunting for the bounty hunter thing hadn't been such a good idea after all. What if something had happened to Carson? And what if that same something happened to her?

 _C'mon, Lotta. You took three bullets to the chest and lived through it,_ she thought to herself. _You can take whatever some spooky tattoo parlor can throw at you._

Her inner voice wasn't convincing. It was like Carson trying to sound all manly and macho. But she couldn't just go back to Arthur and tell him she'd been too much of a chicken to check some place just because Carson had called it 'creepy'. She _had_ to check it out.

But she wasn't going to do it unarmed.

Lotta had heard from co-workers in some of her many previous part-time jobs that pawnshops sometimes sold hand-me-down firearms. Not legally, usually, but accessible if you knew the right people or the right words. It was worth a shot.

Lotta left the Suites and headed over to Trip's pawnshop beside her apartment building.

Inside, she found a caged door leading into an open floor space enclosed by bulletproof glass on all sides with a display of items along the base – candlesticks, vases, radio sets, lamps, chinaware, old television sets, microwaves, and cake mixers, even a drum kit and an antique grandfather clock. A man sporting a bedhead and goatee, dressed in blue jeans and a sad, worn out grey t-shirt with the word 'SURF' on it next to a cheap stenciled image of a surfer riding a wave.

The man was reading a comic book but leaped, albeit a bit unsteadily, to his feet at her entrance. "Uh, how's it going?" he said, definitely sounding like the pawn shop's namesake, judging by the slur in his voice. "You, um, lookin' to buy or… sell or…"

"Buying. Hopefully," she replied. "Are you Trip?"

"That's me," he said proudly. "I own this shop. You, uh, new to Santa Monica?" he asked.

"Is it that obvious?" she said lightheartedly.

"It's not a big surprise," he replied. "We get new faces through here night after night. Used to be more tourists, but now… I dunno, man. It's more like drifters."

"Why would drifters come here?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. Santa Monica is dead. I don't know why _anyone_ comes out here anymore."

"Well, I've got one good reason, at least," she said. "I'm looking to buy protection. And I don't mean condoms. Do you sell firearms?" It was hitting the problem on the nose but Trip seemed harmless enough.

"Um. No. Not… not really. Sorry."

Lotta couldn't help but be amused. "'Not really'?"

"No!" he persisted. "I-I said… Well I-I mean… I don't have any. Guns. No guns." Lotta gave him a coy look. "What?" he asked, his voice rising a quarter of an octave.

"Oh, nothing," she said nonchalantly. "It's just that I'd be interested in knowing someone who did."

"I'm not, uh, properly licensed to carry major weapons," he admitted, unable to quite fully meet her gaze as he spoke. "Y'know. Anything beyond a pocketknife is mine personally… You know, like, just for show."

"Relax, honey," she said. "I'm not a cop."

Trip made an uncomfortable noise that sounded like he was trying to regain some of his edge over the negotiation but still wasn't entirely convinced he wasn't being set up. "I… I didn't… I didn't really think you were. Well… just… promise me you're not going to go bloody up a beach or a schoolyard or anything like that."

"It's for personal protection," she reassured him.

"Well…" he gave it one more reassessment. Then his reluctance dropped and he was talking like a normal person again. "Okay. Hey, it's cool. I'm overstocked anyhow. Give me a sec. I'll show you what I got."

A few minutes later, her pocket was one .38 heavier. It was a cheap, small-caliber handgun – the sort used by startup hoods in alleys across the country. Her colleagues had called it a 'purse gun', but Lotta didn't think she'd ever be going back to owning and carrying around a purse. It just seemed too… normal. A normal woman trying to make it by on the L.A. streets might carry a purse with cash in it, maybe even a purse gun to go along with that to discourage would-be muggers, rapists, and deranged ex-boyfriends. Chances were that, depending on where she operated, a normal woman would have to point that gun at someone in the streets of L.A. at some point. But chances also were that that woman wouldn't actually ever need to fire that gun.

But that wasn't Lotta. Not anymore. She didn't have a purse and she didn't have a purse gun. She had a .38. And a part of her was really wondering if she was actually going to have to use it that night. And in order to get that .38, she'd used up all the remaining cash she'd had on hand. That _and_ she'd even had to pawn off that watch she'd found in the bathroom of her apartment for an extra thirty bucks. Now she _needed_ that $200 Arthur had promised her. Which, unfortunately, also meant that she now _needed_ to find Carson, which, in turn, meant that she needed to enter that tattoo parlor and follow her leads to their bitter end. Her choices had been made for her by the purchase of the gun.

As she made her way to the tattoo parlor, Lotta began thinking about how Jack and that bodyguard to the Prince had so easily taken down the thugs the night before and for the first time began wishing she had abilities like them. And the question that followed was: why not? If only there were someone who could explain things to her. Would she develop those abilities in time? Did she have to do something to get them? Some dark ritual? Or were there some vampires who simply didn't have any of those abilities – vampires who were simply humans who couldn't live in the sunlight?

Lotta's thoughts fell silent as she neared Devil's Brand Tattoo. The street was mostly clear except for a loiterer or two on the other side of the road. Not wanting to seem like an intruder, Lotta walked up to the tattoo parlor's door with as much confidence as she could muster to make it seem like she belonged there and slid the key into place.

Turning the latch, she paused. She couldn't help but feel like she was being watched. Casting a glance over her shoulder she saw the one remaining loiterer watching her intently. By his attire, she guessed he was yet another homeless denizen of Santa Monica's nightlife, but he seemed far too interested in her. Or the parlor. Lotta couldn't decide which.

Throwing all subtlety to the wind, Lotta turned completely and stared directly at him. In response, he broke eye contact and began walking away down the street. He never looked back again but Lotta nevertheless kept her eye trained on him until he had gone another two blocks and then turned the corner out of her line of sight. She waited another minute, but it didn't seem like he would be returning.

Satisfied that he wouldn't be returning, she entered the tattoo parlor. Inside, her fingers found the light switch. Two fluorescent bulbs flickered to life. One flickered incessantly.

The receptionist desk lay bare and empty except for a cash register that didn't look like it had been used in ages. The paneling on the ceiling had suffered years of water damage and peeled away, revealing the boards of the floor above. The walls were worn and cracked, the faded white revealing the old sickened red beneath, like blood seeping from the pores of the parlor's crumbling flesh.

The room behind the counter where the tattoo artist would have worked was similarly empty. Only two empty chairs – one a swivel chair for the artist, the other a recliner for the patient – sat within. Lotta realized she had thought of the second chair as a belonging to a 'patient', and that realization unsettled her. In her overactive imagination, fueled by her frayed nerves, she saw someone strapped to the chair, a drilled boring into the side of his temple.

But aside from that disturbing thought, there was no other real tangible reason she could see as to why Carson had described the place as creepy… until she remembered he had made reference to some place "down there." Her eyes trailed their way to the open doorway nearby that led presumably into the darkened basement. Lotta pulled out the .38 and cocked the trigger. The weapon held unsteadily in front of her, she made her way slowly down the steps.

A light was coming through the doorway at the base of the steps. It had a sickly yellow glow. Lotta was glad she wasn't in heels. Silently, she made her way down and then turned the corner to find herself in a disheveled but unoccupied room surrounding by four walls of dark grey brick. The floor was strewn with trash – mainly old magazines. A wall phone was the only thing on the left side. On the right stood a bed with an unsheeted mattress – not so different from her own apartment. A television set had been positioned atop a pile of boxes. In the corner of the room stood a tall boiler, presumably for the bathroom she had yet to see in the building.

That someone would live in a dingy basement like this was creepy enough, Lotta had to admit, but it was on the far wall that she finally saw what had in all likelihood inspired Carson's less than positive reviews of the place. It wasn't horrifying, but it was creepy; Carson had got that much right, at least. An ad printed on green paper had been taped to the wall. It read: 'QUICK CASH FOR MODELING! Call Gimble's Prosthetics. 310-555-0142'. But next to that sign were large printouts of (fortunately attached) human limbs stuck to the wall with masking tape: two feet, an open-palmed hand, an elbow and beginnings of a forearm, a foot, two hands clasped together… It didn't take a genius to figure out that whoever had been living in the basement had been trying to earn some easy money by modeling… Lotta took a closer look at the photos… _his_ limbs. They definitely belonged to a man. Whoever had taken the photos had probably stuck them up on the wall so that he could… what? Admire his own limbs? Decide which would be the best to send? Lotta hoped it was the latter.

Modeling one's limbs for a shop that sold prosthetics was downright creepy. No doubts about that. But in a bout of self-reflexivity, Lotta knew she was doing some rather desperate things herself to earn a quick buck. As unsettling as it was, who was she to judge? The question that got her wasn't so much why someone would be willing to have pictures taken of their limbs but whether the pictures on the wall were of McGee's appendages. If so, Lotta suspected she might have a decent idea as to where he might have gone. Perhaps this was the 'lead' Carson had been so vague about on the tape.

The phone behind rang suddenly and Lotta let out a slight yelp. It rang once, twice, three times… and kept ringing. Lotta hated the idea that it had only started now that she'd entered the basement. It seemed too coincidental – as if someone had known she would be down here. But her nerves _were_ on edge. She knew herself well enough to accept that her imagination was running a bit wild right there and then.

The phone was going past its sixth ring. Whoever was on the other end was persistent. She gingerly approached the phone and lifted it off its cradle.

"Hello," came a rather floaty British accent on the other end. "Might I speak with Mr. McGee."

Lotta eyebrows shot to the top of her head. Whoever was on the other end knew McGee had been hiding out here just as Carson had.

"He… doesn't seem to be here at the moment," she replied truthfully. "Can I help you?"

"Well, I'm not sure," the caller said with that slightly off-putting lilt in his voice. "I had an appointment with him a few days ago, but he never seemed to show up." The man gave a short nervous hiccoughing laugh. "Do you know when he'll return?"

"I'm afraid not," said Lotta. "May I ask what sort of appointment was this?"

"Well, Mr. McGee was going to be doing some modeling for me – medical reference for the work that I do here in the studio. It's a shame, really… the proposition would have been quite lucrative for him."

"Well, that's too bad. I'm looking for him myself, actually."

"You are? Isn't _that_ a coincidence? Why are you looking for him?"

"He's an old friend. He was here, last I could tell."

"Oh." Another laugh that came across as a nervous hiccough. "I see."

"Do you suppose you could answer a few questions for me?"

"I'd be delighted to. Why don't you come down to my office and we'll talk about it. I'm at the end of Main Street, small basement studio. The sign says 'Gimble's Prosthetics'. Just ring the buzzer and I'll let you in."

"Sounds good. I'll be along shortly."

"Splendid! I'll be waiting!"

The man sounded strange and his accent was unsettling for some reason. But stereotypes of creepy men aside, he seemed like a decent enough sort. The pictures on the wall were weird, but that was on McGee, not whoever it was who'd been on the phone.

* * *

Lotta began having more than a few misgivings when she reached the narrow set of stairs by the edge of a parking lot at the end of Main Street. The sign to Gimble's Prosthetics was clear enough, but the lack of finish on the concrete steps and walls leading down to the entrance made the place look distinctly uninviting. Down the steps and to the left, she found the keypad and speaker sitting beside a steel door. This didn't look like a prosthetics store at all. It reminded Lotta either of an underground bunker or a prison, neither of which was particularly appealing to her.

 _Last chance, Lotta_ , she told herself. She fingered the revolved in her pocket, then forced her hand back out sans firearm. If she was going to do this, she'd have to play it cool. Either that or go in guns blazing. It would be pointless giving a half-assed performance.

She hit the buzzer.

"Yes? May I help you?" came the same melodic voice she had heard on the phone earlier.

"Hello…" she said, a little uncertainly. At least she didn't have to fake away the nervousness in her voice. Any woman calling at a sketchy looking hole in the wall like this would have plenty of reason to feel nervous. "I spoke with you on the phone a little while ago."

"Oh, right! Right!" he said with an uncomfortable chuckle. "I'll buzz you in."

"Thanks."

Inside she found herself in a clean, well-lit waiting lounge with the allegro from Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 16 in C major playing from hidden speakers. It was certainly a change from the seedy tattoo parlor she'd just left. There was a blue couch with the requisite coffee table and stacked with boring magazines. A water dispenser sat at the corner, completing the picture of a typical waiting room. The walls were evenly painted, the floor was square linoleum, and the ceiling was awash with fluorescence. Nothing suspicious about this place at all. Nothing except for the exceedingly sketchy entryway, that is. Nothing except for the fact that it was close to midnight and yet this business still looked and sounded as if it were noonday. Nothing except for the well-dressed man in his forties with the well-combed hair wearing the white shirt, dress pants, blue striped tie, and a metal two-pronged prosthetic in place of his left hand who emerged suddenly from the only other door in the room, causing her to jump in surprise.

"Hello!" he declared, his voice clearly identifying him as the one she'd spoken to the phone and the intercom system. "Welcome to Gimble's Prosthetics and Medical Supplies. You're here about the missing Mr. McGee, am I right?"

"Yes, I am. And you are…"

"Oh! Yes, forgive me!" he replied. "My name is Gimble! _Stanley_ Gimble. But, oh! Dear. Let us dispense with formalities. _You_ can call me Stan."

"So you were saying this place has prosthetics."

"Yes, what of it?"

Lotta shrugged. "I never knew there was much of a market for these things in L.A."

"Oh, it doesn't matter how _many_ people need them," he said, far too enthusiastically. " _My_ job is simply to make things a little easier for those who _do_ find themselves…" He made a small uncomfortable noise as if he disliked the next word: "disadvantaged. Giving a helping hand, you might say? A leg up?" he suppressed a chuckle, laughing through his nose in a deeply unnerving manner. "Bloody clever, that one."

"I apologize if this is a little forward, but I couldn't help but notice you yourself have your own... Was that what inspired you to do what you do?"

"Mmm? Oh! Ah, you mean the arm." He gave a mild-mannered groan as if reliving an unpleasant memory, but it was a largely facetious gesture. "Yes, _that's_ an interesting story, if you've got the time for one."

"Of course."

"Well, you might say I have a certain love affair with the human anatomy. An obsession, really. Prosthetics seemed a natural occupation in which to, uh, focus my enthusiasm as it were."

"Wait. I'm sorry. I don't think I see—"

"The arm! Right! Yes. Well. I came to realize that I would never truly reach mastery in prosthetics without knowing what it was like to have to use one."

Lotta couldn't hide the look of shock that she felt sure was clearly plastered all over her face. "Wait. You didn't…"

"And so I decided, quite out of the blue, actually, to cut off my own arm!" Lotta felt her eyes bulge out of their sockets. "My work, as you can well imagine, has quite improved since then."

Lotta began edging her way off the seat. Beneath Gimble's veneer of cheerful classy conviviality, something broken was beginning to rear its ugly head. "That's uh, really, really weird. So… about McGee…"

"Mmm?" Gimble seemed distracted. "Oh. Oh! Right. Right. Mr. McGee. Yes. Well, as I told you, he was supposed to show up for a photography session. Reference for my work, that kind of thing."

"When? Today?"

"A _few_ days ago actually. I've been trying to call him since."

"He didn't show up at all?"

"No. He didn't. Earlier, I had asked him to take a few pictures of himself for my… perusal – a sort of, um, resume, you might say. And that was the last I'd heard of him."

"I see. Does the name Carson happen to ring a bell?"

"Carson? No. I don't think so, anyway." His mind seemed to wander for a moment, before he suddenly perked up. "Oh! Oh! Look! I know I've got some information on Mr. McGee back in my files. Do you want me to try and dig it up?"

"Yeah…" Lotta said, wondering what information Stan could possibly have on McGee other than the dimensions of his limbs. "That sounds great," she tried again with a bit more forced enthusiasm. "I'd appreciate it…"

"Don't mention it. Just wait here a moment, and I'll be right along."

"Thanks. I'll—" Stan was headed back through the door from which he had originally come even before she was done speaking. "wait here…" she finished.

The door he swung closed didn't shut all the way and even as she heard Stan's fading footsteps, the door began swinging gradually open once more. Through the entrance, Lotta spotted a black board with several price listings of prosthetic limbs written in chalk. She couldn't quite make out the words as the board was on the far wall of the room, so she headed timidly through the open doorway.

It was another world inside. Nothing had been painted or tiled. The cracks in the concrete were clear as day on the floor and in the walls. The constant sound of wind rushing through some unseen vent drowned out the melodies of Mozart from the room she had just left. The place was dimly lit but thanks to her heightened vampiric vision, she could make everything out with absolute clarity.

The listings on the black board were for mannequin arms and other parts, whole mannequins, prosthetic limbs, and even crash test dummies. An additional set of instructions at the very bottom read: 'AMPUTEES MUST WAIT UP FRONT'.

All around the room were a diversity of mannequin parts. On the left wall, open-faced boxes held mannequin torsos and heads hoisted up on steel stands. One shelf on the wall held nothing but heads. Boxes with the name 'GIMBLE' were strewn all over the place on the floors and shelves. A couple of prosthetic legs hung disturbingly from the ceiling. In the further half of the room stood a bench and a cabinet above it filled with tools. Next to that, attached directly to the wall were a number of pictures and photographs. Some were anatomical charts with arrows and circles drawn over parts of them. The photos were of real-life people in the nude with their genitalia censored out with black ink. Pieces of yellow sticky paper were pasted over the photos with notes to the writer on when to call the people in the photographs. Not too far away from the pictures stood a video camera mounted on a tripod facing the bare wall with a single door nearby providing the only other way out of the room.

The door opened up into a set of stairs that twisted their way down into another corridor lined with what looked like… cell doors. Barred windows were set in the center of each door.

What kind of prosthetics shop had cells? Lotta drew the .38. Maybe this place _had_ been a prison after all.

The first cell was empty. The second opened up to reveal a table with more tools on it. Only these weren't the same hardware tools Lotta had found in the room above. These tools looked distinctly less savory: a steel double-headed hammer, a hacksaw, a short-bladed knife, metal forceps, what looked like a syringe… Next to all those tools was a book on human anatomy. Beside that: an industrial sink with suspicious red splotches staining the basins.

Lotta didn't know what the physical symptoms of fear were for a vampire who was already one of the dead. She didn't sweat. There was no real need since the vast majority of her body was no longer living tissue and temperature regulation was a thing of the past. She knew she could breathe – she'd tried it several times – but she'd also figured out she didn't really have to in order to survive; her lungs were there and she could still operate them, but there was no real need. But while virtually all of her organs had ceased functioning, her heart was the one sole part of her that still operated in a way similar to what it had done before. And right then, it was pumping furiously.

At the next cell door, the view through the barred window was even more disturbing: it was an operating table with what looked like bloodstains on the surface. As Lotta gingerly pushed the door open, she gasped reflexively – an expression still retained from her previous life. The stains on the table were nothing compared to the stains on the floor. In fact, they weren't even stains. There was enough blood to form a pool – which meant someone had lost that blood only recently.

That was all she needed. Gimble was insane and very likely some kind of serial killer. There was no doubt left in Lotta's mind.

So why was she still venturing forward?

Everything within her told her to get the hell out of there. But at the same time, it felt somehow impossible to leave. There was an inertia within her that kept driving her forward. It was like being in some surreal dream. Never in all her life had she come across a situation as twisted as this one. It just seemed too unreal. And just like a dream, she wasn't allowed to turn from what lay ahead. There was a sense of inevitability surrounding her and permeating her being. Her body shook with fear, again probably due more to muscle memory than anything else, and yet she kept moving now, down another flight of steps and to the set of double doors up ahead.

The doors opened up into another large room, lit with a few working ceiling bulbs. Boxes on pallets were arranged all around the room, forming a sort of perimeter around the main attraction: another bloodstained operating table complete with surgical lighting and an old patient monitor extending down from the ceiling. On the table were more tools like the ones she had found in the previous room – a hand drill, a large foot-long landscaping stake, a curved blade, a hand axe, a hacksaw… half of them were covered with blood. From a door on the other side of the room came the pungent smell of stale urine. It was so overpowering that she could smell nothing else.

"Hey!" a voice hissed from nearby.

Lotta turned to her right and noticed for the first time that a row of three cells were located along the right side of the same wall shared by the door she had just come in from. Lotta made her way to the cell from whence she'd heard the voice. Through the barred window stood a red-haired man in a blue collared shirt. There was sweat on his brow. He looked to be in some pain.

"Help! You gotta get me out of here, man!" His voice sounded familiar. It was the same voice on the recording in the apartment in the Santa Monica Suites. This was Carson, no doubt about it.

"Did Gimble put you in here?" she asked.

"Who else?"

"Why?"

"So he can…" His voice started cracking. "He's… he's been takin' pieces offa me and McGee over here for the last three days. He's crazy man! Freakin' crazy! You gotta get me outta here. Please, man." The first traces of hysteria were seeping into his voice. The prospect of freedom was beginning to collapse whatever mental defenses he'd been shoring up over the past few days.

Lotta had seen the blood on the tools and operating table up above and now here in this room as well. But she'd assumed Gimble's victims had all been dead. If what Carson was saying were true, then…

Another nagging issue bulldozed its way into her stream of thought. Carson had just mentioned McGee. But hadn't Gimble said that McGee had never shown up? If McGee was here, then… Lotta's memories flashed back to the man watching her as she'd entered the tattoo parlor, the call Gimble had made when she'd gone down the stairs to the basement… It had all been planned! Whoever that homeless man had been, he'd obviously been paid to watch the building in case anyone with access to the building got in and… saw those incriminating pictures making Gimble a suspect! That phone call had been Gimble's alibi. But… what if it were more than just an alibi. What if it had been a lure? Lotta felt a sickening coldness settle in her gut.

"Have you seen him? Gimble. Do you know where he is?" she asked Carson.

"No. He hasn't come in here. Which is why you gotta get me out quickly!"

Lotta was confused. How could Gimble not have passed through here? There hadn't been any other path than the one she'd taken. Regardless, Carson was right. She couldn't leave him down here.

"Do you know where's the key to this—"

Lotta felt something sharp slide cleanly into her kidneys from behind. It was a split second before the pain registered. Then she felt more pressure just next to her shoulder blade. Then again through her lower back. She felt someone push her forward and she collapsed to the floor.

She had just been stabbed! Thrice! Even as she groaned through the pain, a small part of her still couldn't believe it. She'd _never_ been stabbed. Not in her entire life! And now here she was, about to die. And she _still_ couldn't figure out how someone had managed to come up behind her.

"You have such beautiful arms," came an all too familiar musical voice.

Amidst the haze of pain, she dragged herself forward. Maybe she could get away… maybe he would _let_ her get away… no, what was she thinking?! She wasn't thinking straight. It wasn't that the pain was unbearable. In fact, she hardly felt it. Rather, it was the shock of feeling and being aware of three gaping holes in her body and the thought that she'd been fatally stabbed – notions that were so foreign to her that her mind couldn't quite process it. She should be dead. But she wasn't. And so she needed to get out of there. Now. Her thoughts weren't making sense. Her vision was swimming.

She made it three feet.

"Hasn't anyone told you how magnificent those arms are?" Gimble's voice swam over her. It sounded as close to her as before. She wasn't creating any distance between them. She had to move… faster… "I absolutely must have them!" he shouted ecstatically all of a sudden. And then she felt the steel landscaping stake drive its way straight through back and out of her chest. And just as suddenly, she couldn't move at all. All strength left her limbs and she went limp.

It was an all too familiar sensation. It had all started with that stake through the heart two nights ago in the hotel room. And now it was happening all over again: that feeling of helplessness, of paralysis; the fear that flooded her mind as she realized that all she could do was stare blankly ahead at whatever horror was coming next… She felt hands reaching under her arms and pulling her off the ground. Or rather, one hand was under her left shoulder. Two cold metal pincers gripped her right shoulder like a vice. And then she was being dragged from behind. She saw Carson's cell door pass her by and then she was being pulled to the center of the room – to the surgical table.

Gimble hoisted her up so that she facing the table. For a moment, nothing happened, and she realized he wasn't going to be able to get her on the table with a steel stake sticking through her. Slowly but surely, she felt the steel sticking through her heart begin to move.

 _Please…_ she thought to herself with the first glimmers of hope. With a sudden wrenching feeling, the stake came free of her body. And suddenly she felt life – or whatever the undead alternative to that was – rushing back in to fill the void. The feeling was so sudden and so overpowering that she gasped loudly.

"Still alive!" Gimble exclaimed in surprise. "Remarkable! And no… blood…. Strange…" She was still weak and couldn't resist as Gimble hoisted her on the table onto her back. "Well, since you're still with me, there's something I just _have_ to show you. Stay right there!" He chuckled at the joke, and then headed over to the door on the other side of the room.

Slowly but surely, Lotta felt energy flowing back from her heart to the rest of her body. But it wasn't fast enough. She tried to move her fingers, but succeeded at only a small twitch. Unable to turn her head, she could only hear the mad man humming a mad tune as he rummaged in the other room for something… something she could only guess at.

 _Come on… Come on!_ she urged herself, frantically willing her body to move but to no avail.

The humming stopped. Lotta struggled to turn to see what was happening, but still her body refused to cooperate.

Gimble's face lurched into view. He was grinning wildly. In his only good hand was an arm, the arm of a man – the _dismembered_ arm of a man.

"You see?" he cried happily. "Yours and his will make the perfect pair!" He put the arm to one side. Then she felt his fingers settle momentarily on her left arm before he recoiled. "You're freezing!" he said in surprise. "Surely rigor mortis can't have set in so quickly! You're not even dead!"

As if those words were the triggers she'd needed to hear, her right arm rose off the table and she threw all she had into the fist. It connected solidly with his chest. To her great surprise, Gimble was thrown visibly off his feet. He landed over six feet away and slid an additional three till he came to rest at the base of Carson's cell door.

Lotta leapt off the table. She could still feel the multiple puncture wounds in her body. Now that she'd gotten over the initial shock, they cried out in pain – cried out for life-restoring blood. And Gimble was an entire vat full of it. She sprang towards him, closing the distance in a single bound. His neck was throbbing – throbbing with life. And then that life was coursing through her.

* * *

"Hey! Hey lady!" The muffled words swam through the thick and heavy air. "Hey, are you alright? What's happening down there?"

Lotta felt her senses coming slowly back to her. And then, in a flash of realization, she abruptly noticed that she was moaning, and it wasn't a moan of pain either. She shut her mouth, cutting off whatever sounds of pleasure she had been inadvertently projecting to her unintended audience.

Then she glanced down and flinched. Gimble was a mess, his neck barely visible under the crimson that was now covered everything: his white shirt, the floor, her hands, her arms, her new blouse, her… she wiped the only clean shoulder of her blouse over her mouth and it abruptly ceased to be even the slightest bit white anymore.

 _Shit… shit shit shit_.

"Can you hear me?" Carson called again.

"I'm…" Lotta coughed to clear the fluid from her throat and tried again. "I'm fine… I'm fine. Just give me a moment…"

"Thank the heavens!" Carson exclaimed. "I thought he had you for sure!"

What to do? There was nothing nearby that could wipe off the blood that she was sure covered at least half of her body.

 _Think, Lotta, think!_

A crazy idea hit her and, in the spur of the moment, Lotta decided she had to just run with it.

"I think… I think I see the switch to your cell." She rose to her feet, feeling more energetic than she'd had since… since never. She'd _never_ felt this good, not even when she'd gone after the man in the parking lot two nights back. A quick look at Gimble's corpse told her why – she'd drained him dry. There was nothing left to him. All the blood he'd had within his body was now either decorating the scene or somewhere deep inside her. Wasn't this what Jack had warned her about? She'd done it, hadn't she? She'd given in to the Beast. She'd turned into an animal. And yet… and yet why did it feel so good?

She headed over to the set of levers she'd just spied on the wall near Carson's cell. She pulled all three, releasing the locks on the doors to each of the cells.

"Thanks, man! You're a lifesaver, I wasn't sure I was…" The initial look of relief on Carson's face turned instantly into one of horror as he saw the bloodied corpse lying right in front of the doorway to his cell. Then he saw her and, for the briefest of moments, she detected fear. And she felt shame. But then she practically saw his mind working overtime to make sense of how a supposedly harmless woman like herself had gotten herself into that bloody mess. She had been counting on it. Now she just needed to play the part right.

The stunned look was easy to pull off. She was already slumped against the wall where the levers were located, as if opening the cell doors had already taken everything out of her. Now she sank to the ground, her arms extended to the floor, her eyes deliberately glazed over at the sight of all the blood. Predictably, his masculine ego kicked in just as she'd expected it to.

"Hey, hey," he said comfortingly as he sat down beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulder, oblivious to the blood her was getting on his own clothes.

Lotta knew that a lot depended on how well she could pull this off, so she threw everything into it. "I… I… He tried…"

"It's okay," he crooned. "It's okay. You did what you had to do. He would have killed you. You did the only thing you could." He held her at arms' length so he could look her in the eye. "Look at me," he said. "You…" His eyes widened in shock. "You're crying blood!"

Lotta nearly went rigid at this new revelation. She'd thought she'd been putting on a pretty good act, forcing herself to bring on the tears. She'd learned that much in preparation for some of those acting auditions she'd had in the past. But _this_ was new. Why hadn't anyone told her about this?!

"Gimble must have hit you pretty hard! We have to get you to a hospital!"

"No, no," she protested. "It's Gimble's blood. It just… It must have gotten mixed up in this… I'm fine. Really."

"O-okay," said Carson, unsure of how to respond. Then he did the next thing that seemed logical to him. "Here, come on," he said, guiding her away from the carnage and back up the stairs the way she'd originally come.

They got to the waiting room and Carson sat her down. "You just wait here," he said. "I'm gonna…" He paused as it became clear he didn't really know what he was going to do. "I'm gonna handle Gimble," he said in the end, which sounded strange and he knew it.

As Carson left to sort out the mess that had once been Gimble, Lotta was left once more to her own thoughts. Now that she'd started coming down from her blood-fueled high, the morality of the whole issue began weighing on her once more. Yet, even as she grappled with the fact that she'd just killed a man in what, to her, still seemed to worst way possible, she also realized that it was a purely philosophical conundrum she was dealing with. Nothing about it _felt_ wrong to her. He had attacked her. He had been about to saw her arm off or worse. And she'd killed him because of it. It was as simple as that at the most basic level. There was no moral high ground in this.

But then she looked down at herself again, smeared in human gore, and recalled that brief fleeting glimpse of fear she'd seen in Carson's eyes – that ephemeral moment when he'd seen her not as a woman who'd somehow miraculously defended herself against a psycho but as a bloodthirsty monster more akin to predators like Gimble than victims like Carson himself.

This couldn't go on. Even if she felt no emotional compulsion against what she did, she had to make a stand, draw a line in the sand somewhere; it didn't matter so much where, but it had to be _somewhere_.

Feeling like she'd made some modicum of progress in figuring out her new situation, Lotta got up from the sofa. Judging by the clock on the wall, Carson had been down there close to a half-hour. She waited another ten minutes just to make her performance of a woman in shock convincing, then headed back down to check on Carson.

In the operating room from hell, she found Carson mopping up the blood. It was then that she noticed that each of his hands was missing a finger, a bandaged stump was all that was left of each digit.

"Hey…" he said a little uncomfortably as he noticed her entrance.

"Hey."

"Feeling better?"

"A little. I was wondering… did you find any extra clothes around here while you were looking around?"

"Well… yes, but… they're in his room." Lotta gave him a querulous look. " _That's_ his room," Gimble said gesturing with a nod of his head at the door from whence the smell of urine emanated.

"I'll manage," she reassured him, then headed to the room.

Inside, the stench became almost overpowering. A pile of unwashed clothes lay clumped in a heap in one corner. In the other was another sheetless mattress, only this one was covered in very visible urine stains. Lotta wrinkled her nose in disgust as she gingerly navigated the room to a set of drawers where she was able to locate some clean clothes. The only items were pairs of dress pants and long-sleeved shirts, all of which were a little too big for her, but they were better than what she had on. Lotta took the newest looking pair and brought them with her out of the room.

As she returned to the main operating theatre, she happened to glanced through the open doorway of the second cell next to Carson's. On the cheap bed set against the wall lay what she could only guess was McGee's body. All that was left was a limbless torso. McGee's arms had been cut off at the shoulders and his legs removed from the thighs down. His lifeless eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling.

Carson caught her staring and stopped mopping. "That would've been me next. I tell you, I've been on some weird cases before, but this one takes the cake."

"So that's McGee," said Lotta. Carson nodded. "So you must be Carson, then."

"Yeah… yeah, that's me. How did you know?"

"Arthur Kilpatrick sent me."

"He did? And he sent a wo…?" Carson caught himself. "Well. Man! That's solid. I owe that guy big. I hope I can figure out a way to pay him back for this."

"He was telling me he had some work for you."

"Oh, no, man. No, no, no. Not for me anymore. Look at my hand!" He showed her one of his four-fingered hands. "Gimble took my trigger finger for a trophy. I'm all through with _this_ business. Another job like this and I may not make it out next time. I mean, I hate to leave Arthur in a lurch and all, but that's just the way it is."

"Well, you should probably tell him."

"Nah. That man can wield guilt like a pro when he puts his mind to it. But I know how he works. Here, take my permit as proof you found me." He handed her an official-looking, albeit faded, document from his pocket. She offered the clean clothes in her hands for him to deposit the permit so she wouldn't inadvertently get blood on it.

"Hey, is there anything I can do to help? I'm not… I don't know what to—"

"No, don't worry about it," he reassured her. "I got this. You've been through enough for one night."

Lotta suddenly went rigid as she made a sudden realization. Her memory retraced its way back to the moment she'd looked at the clock on the wall. Back in her previous life, five-o'clock-in-the-morning meant she'd been partying too long. Now it meant she needed to get back to the safety of her apartment before the sun rose.

"Well, if it's alright with you, I think I might head back home once I've changed," she said. 'My nerves are a bit… frayed."

"Are you sure you'll be alright? You really should get your head checked out."

Lotta froze for a second before realizing that he was referring to her tears of blood, not her sanity. "I'll be fine," she said. "You take care, Carson." She turned to the door that led back up to the main floor.

"Hey…" he said as she was about to leave. She paused and turned back. "Hey, just so you know," he continued, "I know what happened. I mean, I couldn't see it from inside my cell. But I heard it. And just so you know, I'm cool with that. I mean… we're all a little crazy. We've all got crazy days, y'know? I just… I just wanted you to know Gimble deserved every bit of it, okay?"

Unsure of what to say in reply, Lotta gave Carson an uncomfortable but well-intentioned smile, then left.

* * *

Random notes:

1\. The next chapter is entitled 'The Pain of Being Mercurio'.

2\. The wait for the next chapter will unfortunately be longer. I've got a crazy month ahead.

3\. Stay tuned for the introduction of a new character. I need someone Lotta can bounce her ideas off. Too much inner voice can turn the tale stale, methinks.


	4. Chapter 3: The Pain of Being Mercurio

**Chapter Three: The Pain of Being Mercurio**

"Ain't comin' back? What do you mean he ain't comin' back?" Kilpatrick whined the next night when Lotta told him of the news and handed over Carson's bounty hunting permit. She explained about the psychopath, leaving out the part about her killing said psychopath. "Well, hell. That leaves me in hot water, boy."

"What's the problem?"

"You remember that guy I wanted Carson to find?" Lotta gave a nod. "Well, this guy's got a sheet a mile long – put in on three warrants. His girlfriend put up for the bond and now he missed a court date. I can't get in touch with either of 'em." Kilpatrick looked like he was about to say something else but hesitated. Lotta waited for him to find his tongue. "Want a job?" he said at last.

"After you pay me for finding Carson, maybe."

"Oh, uh, yeah! Yeah, yeah," he said with a nervous laugh. "Sorry about that." He dug in his wallet and pulled out four fifties. Lotta could see the reluctance wafting from his entire frame, but he eventually handed the bills over. She pocketed the bills with much more enthusiasm.

"So about that job," she said.

"Well, it won't be much of a job since you ain't licensed and all…" Lotta bit her lip, recalling her most recent murder. Kilpatrick _definitely_ did not need to hear anything about that if he was actually worried about licensing. "But until I can get me another bounty hunter, I need you to find out if this guy skipped town or what."

"So you just want me to find out if he's there or not," Lotta stated more than asked. That sounded significantly easier than going head-to-head with a psychotic serial killer.

"Yeah, no body attachment or nothing, just find out if he's here or where he went. I'll pay you. Deal?" Lotta gave him an expectant look. "A-hundred-fifty if you can bring me proof telling me where he's gone. Fifty if you're just reporting back an empty apartment."

"I suppose I could do that."

"Great, great. Alright, the guy's name is Mike Durbin. Goes by the name 'Muddy.' His girlfriend put up for his bond. She lives over there above Trip's pawnshop."

 _Home sweet home_ , Lotta thought to herself with a small degree of surprise.

"Her name is Marian Murietta," Kilpatrick continued, "but I haven't been able to get in touch with her."

"What's this guy's record like?"

"Well, he was brought up on manslaughter charges years back, but he got acquitted. Since then, he's been in and out for this and that, small time stuff mostly."

"What did he do this time?"

"Most recently he was brought in as part of a big case on stolen auto parts. It's this big chop shop thing that's goin' on in Santa Monica. Been in the paper."

"And the apartment above Trip's pawnshop belongs to his girlfriend?"

"That's right. Marian Murietta. In them crappy places above the pawnshop." Lotta cringed a little at Kilpatrick's assessment of her apartment complex. But then again, he wasn't wrong. It just made her reevaluate her sense of self-worth for the umpteenth time that night. "Find out where the hell Muddy is, where he's going, whatever," Kilpatrick continued, "but be careful. You're not licensed and if anything bad goes down, I don't know ya. Ya hear me?"

Lotta groaned inwardly, wishing Kilpatrick had told her that before she'd taken on the Carson case. Outwardly, she smiled and acknowledged his warning.

Back at her apartment complex, Lotta stopped by the entryway and glanced at the mailboxes. She had ignored them before, but there was Murrietta's name above No. 507 which, coincidentally enough, was just opposite Lotta's own apartment, No. 508.

Standing outside 507, Lotta knocked. No response. After several more tries, Lotta considered breaking down the door. If she'd been strong enough to knock Gimble off his feet, surely a door wouldn't stop her. But breaking and entering was a crime, and the last thing she needed was cops just outside her door. What if they took her in for questioning and got her name on record? What if someone found out she was here? Someone like…

Family!

Lotta suddenly couldn't breathe, which a small part of her realized was a purely emotional and psychological rather than physiological reaction. She'd been so overwhelmed by the events of the past two days that she hadn't even stopped to consider the implications of her new existence for her relationship with her family.

"Mom…" she mouthed the words as if they were in a foreign language. Her lips trembled and she felt tears coming to her eyes. Two years ago, she had come to L.A. hoping to make a new independent life for herself, away from the controlling reach of her parents. They had rarely spoken in the last twenty-four months and now… did they even know she was missing? What would happen when they found out? When she'd left, she'd been the rebel. Over time, her parents had ceased their weekly phone calls, especially once she'd stopped picking up. And now… now all she wanted was for them to care again – to know that they still cared. To know that _someone somewhere_ still cared that she even existed. How foolish she had been to cut so many ties!

Or… maybe not so foolish. If no one was really keeping tabs on her, that would mean that her disappearance would go relatively unnoticed. And in the end, wasn't that what the Kindred wanted?

But it sucked. It sucked so bad.

Lotta sank to the floor and rested her weight against the wall beside the door to 507. What a sad, wretched, lonesome life this was turning out to be! For the first time, on top of all the other existential concerns she'd been pondering, she now realized just how lonely she felt.

It was strange. Was her social life now so very different from what it was prior to two nights ago? As poor as her previous life had been, she had never once thought of crawling back to her family, partly because of her pride and partly because a part of her still had valued the idea of full autonomy. And yet the greatest irony of it all was that she'd _never_ had full control of her life. Before this new change, she'd been living on the minimum wage, struggling to get that one audition that would make her a star while simultaneously working restaurants, hotels, and fast food outlets to make ends meet. She'd been subject to the whims of her employers, of the economy, of the societal norms about what she was and wasn't allowed or expected to do as a woman… And now she was constrained by her new status as a vampire, forced to cut all ties to her previous life lest the world of light and humankind discover the world of darkness and monsters.

Lotta's fingers absently fiddled with the leaves of the indoor plant that had been positioned as a meagre form of decoration at the end of the corridor next to both her door and that of 507. Something jutting out from behind the vase caught her eye. Reaching behind the vase, Lotta was surprised to find a key, identical in shape and make to the one to her own apartment. And then she was surprised that she'd been surprised. Hiding keys in close proximity to one's door was a quintessentially human thing to do. Surely she should still have remembered something like that.

She tried the key to 507 and this time wasn't half as surprised when she heard the lock slide. Inside she found a bare apartment. It wasn't quite as disheveled as her own, but there was also a glaring lack of furniture except for a single coffee table at the right side of the room against the wall with a phone and answering machine atop it. Clearly, this apartment had only one purpose and it wasn't accommodations.

The light on the answering machine was blinking. Someone hadn't been in to check the messages, which meant that Lotta had to be in and out quickly, before whoever _was_ scheduled to come in – presumable Murrietta – did so. Lotta hit the playback button.

"Hey, Mare," came a man's voice, "it's Mike. Look. I gotta head downtown for a few days, maybe longer. If Reno calls, tell him to meet me down there. We got something to discuss, apparently. I'll be in Milton's place in the Skyline Lofts 2A. Sorry, baby. I'll explain everything later."

Lotta ejected the tape to give to Kilpatrick, but she didn't want to seem overeager. She'd tried that before in her previous life of job hunting. There was always a fine line to walk. Deciding on paying him a visit the next night, she headed back to her apartment to send him an update by email instead.

She had just entered her apartment and was headed over to her laptop when she realized that, in her preoccupied state, she had completely missed the unfamiliar presence haunting her apartment.

She whirled around to see a young, svelte woman with short brown hair, dressed in tight-fitting, almost-glossy, violet jeggings and a long-sleeved lilac blouse held together only by a single button right at her bust line, revealing plenty of skin both above and below. The woman was perched on Lotta's kitchen counter, hands clasping Lotta's last bag of blood from her open refrigerator. There was only a third of the fluid left in the bag but the woman seemed in no rush. She was sipping daintily on the blood as if it were a pack of juice.

Lotta's hand went straight for her .38. It hadn't helped her at Gimble's, but perhaps it would now. The woman was unfazed.

"Who are you?" Lotta demanded.

"Who do you _think_ I am," the woman replied coyly. "A burglar? Is that why you're pointing that ugly twig at me? Is there _really_ anything in this apartment worth shooting me over?"

"There's that," Lotta jutted her chin at the pack of blood held in the woman's slender fingers.

"I can show you were you can get more." The woman's eyes flashed with unconcealed excitement at her own suggestion.

"And why should I trust you?"

"Because we're in the same boat, you and I. Well… not _entirely_ in the same boat. My Sire's still among the… _un_ living."

"How do you know—"

"Word gets around. _Every_ Kindred who gives a fuck knows _of_ you. Most just don't really care to check out the newest addition to the family."

"And you do?"

"Of course! We fledglings gotta stick together."

"What else do you know about me?"

"I know you look cute when you're scared."

Lotta briefly thought of denying the accusation, but it was pretty pointless. She knew by the wavering of her own hands gripping the barrel of her gun that her unease was fairly obvious. She redirected the barrel of the gun away from her uninvited guest, carefully uncocked the hammer, and pocketed the weapon.

The woman took it as an invitation. "Great!" she enthused. "Now we can get on to being friends. I'm Carol."

"Lotta…" Lotta said, still not totally convinced by her newfound acquaintance's sincerity.

Carol's eyes brightened at Lotta's introduction. "Hey, you know if we fit our names together and say them real fast, it sounds like—"

"Yeah, I know. That's my name, unabridged."

"Well then, it seems like I'm already a part of you. I'm like your better half."

Lotta shot her a skeptical look.

"Well now that we've gotten to know each other, what say we get a few more pints?" Carol suggested.

"I actually have… work to do." Lotta realized the last words didn't sound convincing even as she said them. "I've got a couple of emails that need sending."

"What a bore," Carol groaned. "We're creatures of the night now. We've transcended the whole 'sending emails' thing."

"I do need money."

Carol looked like she was about to say something in response, then checked herself before saying, "Oh, right. You don't have a Sire. Yeah, you're shit outta luck, girl. Better go 'send those emails'."

While Lotta headed over to her laptop, her mind still swirling from yet another addition to her accumulation of surreal life events, Carol turned on the TV.

"Our top story tonight," the news anchor was saying. "A derelict ship found floating ten miles off the Los Angeles coast earlier this morning was towed into the port of Los Angeles a few hours ago. The ship was spotted around midnight by fishermen who contacted the Coast Guard after their attempts to hail the ship proved futile. Coast Guard officials are releasing very little information right now, but have identified the vessel as 'The Elizabeth Dane'. No word as of yet as to the whereabouts of the crew, though the Coast Guard are asking any ships that had contact with the Elizabeth Dane to assist them in their search. We'll have more on this story as it breaks."

"Weird shit's been comin' outta that sea lately," Carol commented out loud.

Lotta ignored her and sent out her email to Kilpatrick telling him Muddy had fled downtown. She also noticed a new email in her inbox and opened it to find it was from Mercurio.

 **Hey. Come on over to my place at around 1 a.m. and we'll talk about your task. I'm going to pick up some Astrolite right now. I should be back by the time you come over. I'm at 24 Main Street, Number 4.**

 **M**

Astrolite? What the heck was that? Was it some kind of AstroTurf? Were they going to be laying fields? Lotta briefly wondered if she should have been checking her private email in Carol's presence in the first place but just as quickly realized it was too late. She could smell the woman's faint yet intoxicating perfume wafting over her shoulder, which meant Carol had already read every word of the email.

"Oh shit, is that us? Already?" Carol complained.

"Us? I…" Lotta was at a loss of words.

"Relax, Lotta, I'm on shit duty too."

"…?"

"The Prince has got all the newest fledglings holed up here in Santa Monica so we can run errands for him. Gets us off his back and also grants him free labor to do some of his more menial tasks."

"How many… more are there?"

"Fledglings? Just one. You'll like him. He was a cop before he got turned. Got injured in the line of duty and he's been brooding ever since. Just like you."

"I don't brood."

"You sure aren't very happy."

"I got turned into a vampire against my will three nights ago. How's _that_ supposed to make me happy?"

"So life dealt you a shitty hand."

"Yeah. Death."

" _Un_ death. The point is, don't be Craig. That's our third wheel. You gotta let yourself enjoy life."

"Death."

"You really _are_ like Craig. It's not the end of the world, y'know."

Lotta felt a twinge of loneliness at the memory of her family. "It certainly feels that way sometimes," she said.

Carol made a disapproving noise. "Here, let me show you something." Carol took Lotta's hands in hers before Lotta could react and placed one of Lotta's palms on each side of her face.

Lotta made a feeble attempt at pulling away but she was as curious as she was confused. "What… are you doing?" she asked, standing awkwardly with her palms cupping Carol's face. But then she felt it. The visible rush of a warm rosy blush rising to Carol's cheeks followed by the flush of heat that seeped its way through Lotta's palms and fingertips. Carol's pupils were beginning to dilate, but not in the monstrous, fearsome, overpowering way that Lotta's had when she'd lost control and gone blood-hungry the previous night. Rather, it was the very human-like pupil dilation – the kind associated with a rush of dopamine. Carol was evidently feeling at least some kind of pleasure from the experience.

Realizing she was gazing too much into Carol's eyes, Lotta pulled her hands away and broke eye contact. As she did so, the pallor typical of Kindred skin began seeping its way back into Carol's face.

"How… did you do that?" Lotta asked.

"Anyone can," Carol replied. "Well, anyone like us, that is. When your body decides to shut down all your other organs but the heart, you end up developing a lot more control over that one organ. It's like losing one of your five senses; the remaining senses became that much sharper. Didn't you ever wonder why your Sire wasn't stone cold when the two of you were going at it like jackrabbits?"

Lotta was about to reply but stopped before she had uttered a word. Carol was absolutely right. Lotta hadn't even once paused to wonder about it. And then the meaning of Carol's words sank in.

"You… know about that," she said uncomfortably.

"Like I said. _Everyone_ knows. But chin up, darling. From what I've been told, something like a fifth of all Embraces occur during sex. _And_ … there's one particular clan that's _notorious_ for that."

"Clan?"

"Aw, you poor baby," Carol crooned. "No daddy around to tell you how being a vampire actually works."

"Please do _not_ describe him in those terms," Lotta said, cringing at the idea of her Sire being any kind of paternal figure.

"But it's poetic! Very Oedipal."

" _No_ , it isn't."

"Well, let me give you the brief rundown," said Carol, dismissing Lotta's discomfort. "Within the Camarilla and the Sabbat, there are clans: groups of vampires related to one another through bloodlines inherited through the Embrace. Now, the really _cool_ part about the bloodlines, is that they determine your gifts."

"Gifts?"

There was a crackle of energy that arced its way around Carol's body – not dissimilar to what Lotta had seen on Jack before he had…

In the next moment, Carol was at the other end of the room, back on her original perch in the kitchen area twelve feet away. There was a flicker of electricity in her eyes, and then everything was back to normal.

"Can… every vampire do that?" Lotta said, slightly breathlessly.

Carol shook her head. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, girl. It's all in the blood. I have the blood of a Toreador." Lotta gave her a querulous look. "We're the artists and the visionaries," Carol said with added grandeur. "We pursue the best life has to offer – the cultural world of the arts and entertainment. _And_ … we're as close to our former human selves as vampires get."

"What does that mean?"

"It _means_ , Lotta, that we still know how to enjoy this existence of ours. We still know how to live and laugh… and love. Let's not forget that."

"So your bloodline gives you different… powers?" Lotta said skeptically. "Sounds more like a comic book cliché to me."

"It's not," Carol retorted simply. "It's genetics. Simple as that. Most vampires don't talk about it that way, just because it takes the romanticism out of the whole thing, that's all."

"Well what does that make me, then?"

"Well, judging by all that ploughing your Sire was doing, I'd say it's a pretty safe bet we're in the same boat."

"So if my Sire was a… what did you call it?... Toreador?... Then my question is: why can't I do what you just did?"

"Have you tried?"

"How?"

Carol shrugged. "It just sort of… comes naturally."

"Nothing's natural about being a vampire."

"You _know_ what I mean."

"Well… I'm not feeling anything."

"It does vary in vampires, I've been told. Maybe you're just a late bloomer."

"Great. Stuck being a vampire without any of the perks."

"You've got your peashooter."

"Don't remind me."

"It could come in handy. Just don't bother using it against a vampire. You could've plugged me full of holes just now and I would probably have been more pissed about my clothes being ruined."

"Duly noted."

"Well then, let's get the hell outta here while the night's still young!"

* * *

As they were heading out of the alley where Lotta's apartment was located, they noticed a car partially parked by the road in front of the alleyway, its hood propped open. A well-dressed gentleman in a dark shirt and tie, complete with dinner jacket, stood not too far away from the car looking incredibly out of place in this part of the neighborhood even as he fidgeted impatiently with his expensive looking watch.

"How are you set for cash?" Carol asked Lotta.

"I'm not," Lotta replied.

"Watch and learn."

Before Lotta could do anything, Carol walked over to the man. Lotta watched uncertainly from a distance, close enough only to be able to hear the exchange between them.

"Uh… yes, is there something I can… help you with?" the man asked as Carol strutted towards him.

"What are you up to?" she asked innocently, her voice artificially raised in pitch.

"Waiting for that blasted tow truck I called an hour ago," the man replied, apparently relieved at having found someone to hear him vent. "I'd rather not wait another second in this part of town, at this time of night – it's a rather dreadful place, don't you think? I should have listened to my mechanic. Buy German, he said."

"Well, I'm _terribly_ sorry to trouble you," Carol continued, "but I'm kind of in the same predicament. My purse's been stolen and I need to take a cab home."

"Oh, I completely understand," the man replied, fishing in his wallet for a few bills. "Here, take a few."

"That's incredibly kind of you. And you don't even know me."

"Think nothing of it. I'm not surprised you were pickpocketed in _this_ neighborhood."

"Hey, uh… you looking for a little company?"

"What? Carol. No!" Lotta hissed, softly enough that only a vampire with a heightened sense of hearing would hear.

Carol pouted. "I think my friend back there's getting nervous hanging around these streets. Maybe some other time?" She pulled out her lipstick and wrote down her number on the man's hand. "You have a good evening now."

"Yes…" the man said uncertainly. "Do be careful."

"I will," she mouthed silently to him, and then sashayed back to where Lotta was standing.

"What was _that_?" Lotta complained.

"Oh, Lotta. Have you never tasted the blood of a wealthy man?" Lotta didn't answer. She had. And it had been her first taste of blood too. "Well, we'll soon get more. Here you go." She stuffed the twenty dollar bill the man had given her into Lotta's hand, then looped her arm around Lotta's and pulled her out onto the street, singing a familiar tune from the musical _Fiddler on the Roof_ , except substituting "If I _had_ a rich man" for the famous opening line.

A minute later, they were back at the Santa Monica Suites. Lotta hadn't expected to return so soon. She didn't like it. The entire place was a reminder of the lifestyle she had never attained before her untimely Embrace and, judging by current events, was unlikely to attain any time soon.

The place was just like how she had left it: tall, imposing, grandiose. Everything was the way she had left it… except for the very prominent puddle of blood right at the base of the steps leading up to the main door. Judging by the streaks and occasional bloody handprint, whoever was the owner of all that blood had headed indoors.

"What—" Lotta began to say when she noticed Carol sniffing visibly.

"Our man's in trouble," she commented. "We'd better hurry."

"You know what Mercurio… smells like?" Lotta asked, half impressed and half revolted.

"Never met him in my life, but no time to explain now." Carol threw the main doors open, revealing even more bloodstains. They followed the trail to one of the apartment units. Through the open doorway, they had a full view of the living room, the shockingly large amount of bloodstains on the floor and carpet, and the source of all that blood lying on the couch in the center of the room.

"Fifty bucks says that's our guy," Carol said.

Mercurio gave a start at their entry. He looked to be in his mid to late thirties. Though covered in grime and blood, his attire bespoke a lifestyle of wealth that went along with the general ambience of their surroundings. But he was clearly not in good shape. His bleeding and bruised face alone was proof enough. He either recognized them or had known what they looked like beforehand, for his expression lost its initial fear and alarm, though it retained all of its pain and agony.

"Those mothers…" he gasped, as the air rushing through his vocal chords apparently caused him pain. "… ripped me off… I'm dyin' here." He groaned with another painful gasp, one arm clutching his ribs.

"Should I call an ambulance?" Lotta asked out loud, taking a step closer to the cellphone on the coffee table nearby. In some of her previous jobs as a waitress, Lotta had seen a couple of bar fights. This guy looked like he'd gone through three in a row. In fact, she was amazed he seemed as lucid as he did. Especially, when he gave a horrified yelp at her suggestion.

"What?! No! I got a record back East,' he said. "I'm heat bait. Don't touch that phone! No goddam cops!"

"You look pretty bad," Lotta noted. "Are you sure?"

"No. Cops," he said emphatically.

"Alright, no cops," Carol said.

"So you're lookin' for the Astrolie, huh?" Mercurio asked before suddenly gasping in a sudden spasm of pain. He groaned. "I can feel a draft on my fuckin' insides! They shanked me… the bastards. My head, it feels… cracked… think my eye's popped."

"Stay with me. What happened?" Carol asked.

"I got… I went…" Mercurio winced suddenly and looked down at a bulge in the side of his torso. He seemed genuinely disturbed by the sudden realization. "What is this lump?!" he exclaimed. "Is this my rib? Oh, holy shit, my rib is poking through my side? Ugh… You gotta look and tell me!"

Carol pushed his jacket aside so she could get a better view. "It's a broken bottle," she said simply. "Now, tell us what happened to you, without all the drama this time." Lotta looked on in surprise at Carol's seeming callousness.

Mercurio groaned again, longer this time. "If you could—" He gave a long sigh of pain "Ahh, something just started leaking… I need something for the pain."

"Something for the pain?" Lotta repeated. "How about something to keep you alive?"

"The vamp blood'll keep me alive. Heck, it's the only thing holding me together."

"Vamp blood?" Lotta said.

"He's a ghoul," Carol explained. "They're—"

"I know what a ghoul is," Lotta insisted.

"Well," Carol continued, "then you probably already know that ghouls are beholden to the vampire that gives them their blood. Ghouls get fed vampire blood every… oh, I don't know… month or so?" She paused to cast a glance at Mercurio who nodded painfully.

"Right, you're straight off the bus…" said Mercurio, sparing Lotta a glance amidst a sudden wave of lucidity. "Once a month I get fed," he explained. "Heals me faster, makes me stronger than a normal human. I don't age. By looking at me, you wouldn't realize it, but I'm almost sixty." Another spasm and it was clear he was back in the throes of uncommunicative agony.

"Alright, Mercurio," said Carol. "We'll get you those pain meds. Just don't give up the ghost while we're gone, alright?" She turned to Lotta and rolled her eyes. "Well. Let's go shopping."

* * *

"We're going to the clinic?" Lotta asked as they crossed the street outside.

"Yes, but not through the front door," said Carol. "The woman at the counter's a bitch."

"If vampire blood heals, why couldn't we just, y'know, give him _our_ blood?"

"Ghouls' blood tolerance is conditioned by the blood of their sires. You feed them someone else's blood, they'll get an allergic reaction. And worse, their regnant… that's the vampire who provides them with their blood… he'll know. Guess who's Mercurio's regnant?" Lotta shrugged. "Well let's just say you don't want to piss of the Prince."

Bypassing the main entrance, they headed down the alley next to the clinic where a flickering red light demarcated the presence of the back door to the building.

"Surely they'd loc—" Lotta's words died in her throat as Carol easily turned the handle and led the way into a stairwell at the back of the clinic. "Well, I guess I'm never coming to _this_ clinic for my medical needs," Lotta commented.

"Not unless you're looking for heavy-duty pain meds like we are, at least," Carol pointed out.

"Speaking of which, where would we even start to look?"

"Oh, we'll make our rounds. But first…"

Carol led the way down the dimly lit stairs to the basement. The sign reading 'BLOOD BANK DOWNSTAIRS' gave Lotta a fairly good idea about where they were heading. Down below, two vending machines stood lonely in the stairwell, their ads illuminating the stairwell in neon yellow and purple.

"If you had a choice," Carol said, looking at the two ads, would you prefer thirteen stimulants in your drink or would you rather 'slobber down Liquid Demon Seed'?"

"They both sound ghastly."

"You know what the difference between the two are?" Lotta shook her head disinterestedly. "With one of them, you get an orgasm. With the other, you take one."

"Agh!" Lotta yelled, feeling as if her ears had just been violated.

"It's all in the title," Carol said defensively. "And besides, Ms. Prudish, not so long ago you were no doubt getting your fill of both."

Carol led Lotta out the stairwell and into a bare fluorescently-lit corridor that sloped downwards. Past a door on their right, they came to a window with reinforced glass and a slot below it for the exchange of documents and the like. Next to the window hung a plaque that proudly announced the Santa Monica Blood Bank's Employee of the Month: one Vandal Cleaver.

Carol gave Lotta a small shove so that she was standing directly in front of the window. They had made enough noise on their entry to alert the receptionist in the room beyond who came to investigate his latest visitors. He looked exactly like his photo to the left of the window: a young man in his late-twenties, wearing teal colored scrubs and sporting greasy brown locks that just reached shoulder-length.

"You next up for the needle? Hmm?" He asked. "Your donation could save a life, you know? Oh, but isn't it a little late for altruism?" His voice had a grating and yet somehow hungry-sounding tone that Lotta instantly decided she didn't like. His words sounded as oily as his hair looked. "I don't think you're here to give blood at all. I don't buy it, Betty. I bet you're here to _take_ blood, am I right?"

Lotta gave Carol a sidelong glance to communicate her uncertainty but Carol was smiling encouragingly… as well as expectantly. Lotta turned back to the window and sighed inwardly. She _did_ need a replenishment of her blood supply.

"You offering?" she asked.

"Right down to business," Vandal observed. "None of this pretend-I-don't-drink-blood shit. Very refreshing to find a decisive customer. I respect that. So, what'll it be?"

"How much for a pack?"

"If you have to ask…" he began.

"Just show me what you've got, wise guy."

The blood was expensive, at least for her means, as Lotta soon found out. A 300ml pack cost $75, which restricted Lotta to a purchase of two. There was also a set of blood packs, cheaply labelled 'Blue', that Lotta could smell even through the plastic. She had no idea where that blood came from. All she knew was that the stuff smelled heavenly and it was only because she gotten accustomed to the aroma of blood over the last few days that she managed to keep herself from going into a frenzy. Unfortunately for her, Vandal was selling those at twice the going rate of the regular packs and there was no way someone on her irregular and unreliable salary would be able to afford it, at least not in any sustainable sense. Right now it was more important that she survive. Thriving could come at a later date. She hoped.

"Doesn't this… y'know… break the rules?" Lotta asked Carol as they left the basement.

"From what little I've learned: on the one hand, there's the perfect image of law and order that the Camarilla tries to project and enforce."

"And on the other?"

"In practice, even when it's working the way it claims it should, things aren't quite so clear-cut. There are plenty of people out there who know of our kind, and I'm not just referring to the whack jobs neither. Some are friendly, like Vandal back there."

"Wouldn't exactly call him friendly."

"Well, compared to the alternative…"

"What's that?"

"Vampire hunters, darling."

Carol's tone had suddenly grown serious and Lotta found herself with a sinking and chilling feeling in her gut. Back when she was still among the living, she had watched her share of films and television shows about vampire slayers. But they were always the protagonists. Now… now the thought of people out there whose sole purpose was to kill vampires permanently made her feel sick with fear.

"Are they… a threat to us?" Lotta asked.

"Not if you keep invisible. Those rules we all espouse… they're not just there for show, y'know? People like Vandal know how the system works. He's Camarilla-approved, so to speak. But you sure as hell don't wanna go blabbing your mouth to just anyone. All a hunter needs is the whisper of a rumor and then the chase is on."

They had reached their initial point of entry into the clinic and Lotta stopped for a moment. "All of a sudden our world seems just a little bleaker than it did a minute ago," she confessed.

"Well, just follow the rules and things'll work out," said Carol. "But then what do you I know? I'm a fledgling, just like you!" She cast Lotta an impish grin and then led the way through another door that opened up into the main floor of the clinic. "Alright," she said. "We're definitely not supposed to be here, so keep a low profile."

"Where are we going?" Lotta whispered, following closely behind Carol and feeling completely out-of-place.

They turned a corner and Carol pointed at the door at the end of the hallway labelled 'Administrator' and the words 'Danny Boyle' just below it. "Let's see what old Danny can tell us about where they keep their morphine."

"You're just going to ask him?"

"His computer, at least."

They reached the door and Carol peeked in through the single glass pane set in the center of the door. "We're clear," she said and led the way in. Inside, she headed straight for the computer. "Keep an eye out," she told Lotta.

"What do I do if someone comes?"

"You're a woman and a vampire, Lotta. Be creative." Carol began hammering away at the keys while Lotta peered nervously out through the only door to the room.

"Are you… hacking into that computer?"

"Important skill to have when you've lived through too many girlfriends," said Carol without looking up from her work.

"Oh," Lotta said, genuinely surprised.

The corner of Carol's mouth turned upwards in a grin. "You're adorable," she couldn't help but comment. "You must have lived _such_ a sheltered life. Well… until a few nights ago, that is."

Lotta groaned a little. "Can we _please_ stop bringing that up?"

"Not for awhile," Carol teased. "Okay, the good news is I know where they keep the liquid morphine – upstairs in Controlled Substances. The bad news is they've got a guard on duty there at all times."

"Any other good news?"

Carol hit a few more keys and frowned intensely at the screen as she read through Danny Boyle's recent emails. The perusal took a few more seconds before her eyes finally lit up with amusement. "Well, Danny, or 'F-Dog' as he seems to like calling himself, made a request recently… and they're out-of-stock upstairs. Well, shit. You're right. This _is_ a terrible clinic… But hang on a minute, it looks like a certain Dr. Malcolm St. Martin keeps a few in his office on this floor. And… _oh_! _That's_ interesting. Check this out, Lotta. This email reads: 'I'll make sure to knock before I go in. I'd hate to catch him in the middle of a "pelvic examination".' Oh, I am going to _like this_. Let's go."

Carol finished up, logged out and then led the way out of the administrator's office to Malcolm's office which wasn't too far around the next corner. Like the previous one, this office was empty as well.

"See if you can locate those morphine bottles," said Carol.

"What are you planning—" Lotta began before groaning as Carol predictably headed for the doctor's computer. As Carol dove headfirst into Malcolm's emails, Lotta got to work rummaging through drawers and cabinets.

"Hmm, let's see… yada-yada-yada… _ooh_ , check this out: 'Malcolm, are you free tonight? I thought you could swing by my apartment after your shift. You do still make house calls, don't you doctor? I have something that needs to be checked out.' Signed: Paige."

"I really don't have to hear this," said Lotta as she continued her search.

"No," Carol agreed, "but you _want_ to. Here's the next one. I can't see his what his earlier response was, but I think we can piece together what's going on just from her words alone. You ready?"

" _No_."

Carol ignored Lotta's response. "Here we go: 'Do I really have to ask twice? We don't have to do anything if you don't want. But I really do need some help studying for my anatomy test. Please?' And it's followed by: 'Guess I'll see you around five. I'm really glad you finally decided to come over. And if you should want me to show my appreciation… you just have to ask. Paige.' And let's see what else he's got here… oh my!"

"What?" Lotta asked, startled by Carol's exclamation.

"I think I just hit pay dirt here, Lotta. Check this one out. It's from a certain special someone named Trina: 'Malcolm, do you think you'll be able to get a day off next week? My mother's coming into town on Thursday. I bought a new mattress and some new curtains for the guest room. Do you think you can pick up some doughnuts and orange juice on the way home for breakfast?'"

Lotta had to pause. As guilty as she felt about hearing someone's private emails being shared with impunity, a part of her was fascinated by the scandal she saw brewing.

"Did you say you were in need of money?" Carol asked mischievously.

"Why do you— _oh,_ _hell no_ , Carol! You'd better not be suggesting what I think you're suggesting. Look, I found the bottles. We've got what we came for. Let's just leave. We're not even supposed to be here!"

"Honey, when you've got leverage like this, you can be anywhere you damn well please, at least with respect to a certain Dr. St. Martin."

"You're a nihilist!"

"We do live in a postmodern society after all, dear."

"Yeah, well, I'm not going to stick around and watch you ruin a man's marriage."

"He already did that himself, Lotta. It's just a matter of whether Trina finds out today or ten years down the road when they've got a kid's life to potentially ruin."

"Maybe, but you're not considering doing it for the sake of his wife or their imaginary future child. It sounds more like you're using the power and confidence you got from being a vampire to exert dominance over someone else."

Carol looked as if she was on the verge of replying but caught herself at the last moment as Lotta's words seemed to sink in. She tried again, her mouth opening, but nothing coming out as she found herself at a loss for words.

Lotta could see that Carol wasn't yet convinced. She just didn't know how to respond to what Lotta had just said. "Look, you do what you gotta do," she told Carol. "But I'm not gonna watch you do it. Mercurio needs his drugs, anyhow. I'll meet you back at his place when you're done."

With the two bottles of morphine in hand, Lotta left the office, not wanting to have anything to do with what she feared was about to come next.

She had only made it two doors down, however, when the smell of fresh blood cut its way cleanly through the wafting haze of antiseptic that permeated the air. Though having no intention on feeding in the middle of a clinic full of people, that increasingly familiar primal urge nevertheless arose within Lotta once more, propelling her toward a room a few doors down, if only to satisfy her curiosity. Through the doorway that had been left partially ajar, Lotta heard moaning. But there was nothing erotic about this. It was the sound of someone in pain.

Inside the emergency room, lying on a hospital bed was a young woman in jeans and a bright orange tank top. Her hair was a rich crimson red… the same color as the blood covering her hands. She was lying on her front, which seemed to Lotta a strange position for someone in a hospital bed. It seemed especially inadvisable, Lotta noticed, given the bloodstained sheets, suggesting she was bleeding from somewhere in her abdomen.

In the presence of so much exposed blood, Lotta found herself torn between her senses and her genuine concern for the woman. Gulping down her more animalistic urges, Lotta tried to figure out what to do next. There was no way she was going to feed on a dying woman, but neither could she just stand by and do nothing or, worse still, just walk away.

Lotta stepped outside of the door, her mouth opened to call for help when she recalled that she was not supposed to be there. The two blood packs in her pockets and the morphine bottles made it impossible that she would merely be ejected from the clinic if she were caught wandering around in this part of the clinic. She was pretty sure stealing drugs from a medical facility meant jail time. Perhaps just make a noise and make herself scarce before someone noticed?

But then this _was_ supposed to be a clinic. Any respectable clinic worth its salt would have been monitoring its patients, especially one in such a critical condition as this woman. Which meant one thing: 'respectable' was not one of the characteristics of this clinic. And that meant that if no one was already tending to the woman, drawing attention to her worsening predicament would likely do little to improve the situation.

Lotta reentered the room, the first inklings of panic beginning to rise within her. Even if she had known what to do, this room was particularly barren. There were no medical tools in view. There _was_ nothing she could do, unless…

Vampire blood healed, didn't it? Mercurio had said as much. So had that weird man, Knox, the other night. All she needed to do was give this woman some of her blood and she'd be healed, wouldn't she?

The only thing that was keeping Lotta back was the reminder that both Knox and Mercurio were ghouls. Would giving this woman her blood turn her into a ghoul as well or were there other procedures involved? Was becoming a ghoul just a lifestyle choice or did it mean actual physiological changes? And if the latter, would becoming a ghoul ruin her life in the way Lotta's own sire had ruined hers? Mercurio and Knox _seemed_ like normal human beings… well apart from the fact that she'd found Mercurio beaten half to death and Knox was an uncommonly excitable individual.

The woman groaned again and Lotta knew she couldn't waste any more time. She was doing this to save a life. That made all the difference from what Lotta's own sire had been trying to do.

Lotta stepped up to the woman, extended her arm, and then, grimacing at the thought of what seemed to her to be a mild form of self-mutilation, extended her fangs which grew longer and sharper in response to her intentions. Biting into her wrist, and wincing at the discomfort, Lotta extended her bleeding arm to the woman.

"Drink this," she said gently to the woman, realizing as she did so that the woman had absolutely no reason to follow her suggestion. But whether due to her pain-induced delirium or some other reason, the woman took Lotta's arm in obedience, almost as instinctively as a newborn would suckle a teat. Perhaps Lotta's blood called to her as much as hers had to Lotta. Lotta had no clue. All she knew was that the woman's moans began to change in tone as she sucked Lotta's blood from her wrist. It was a weird and slightly discomforting experience. To Lotta it felt almost like someone was masturbating to an image of her and she wasn't sure if she should feel flattered or disgusted.

The woman kept at it until Lotta felt her wounds closing from her vampiric healing factor. The woman groaned softly again, but this time, the pain seemed to have vanished almost completely from her voice. Her breathing and even her heartbeat sounded more even and relaxed now.

"You alright?" Lotta asked uncertainly.

"You…" the woman said uncertainly. Her voice was slow and slurred. She sounded… drunk. "Who… who are you? What did you do?"

Lotta opened her mouth and shut it again. What was she supposed to tell this woman?

"What did you do to me?" the woman pushed. From her confused, bewildered, and still drugged tone, her question sounded more genuine than accusatory.

"N-nothing," said Lotta. "I'm… just a nurse." She hoped the woman was too enveloped in her stupor to notice Lotta's very _un_ -nurse-like attire.

"No… no, you did something," the woman insisted weakly. "I can feel it… It's… fixing me. You… I… kissed your wrist. What did you do?" She sounded almost… reverential.

"Look…" Lotta began, before realizing that the woman had sufficiently recovered enough to begin raising herself off the bed, one hand reaching for a pair of black-rimmed glasses on the nearby table. She seemed determined to identify her rescuer. "Just forget about this," Lotta said as she began backing out of the room. "Don't speak. Just get some rest and you'll be fine."

"I feel like I know you," the woman pressed. "Like you've always been here."

By this point, the woman had managed to prop herself up on one of her forearms and Lotta caught a clear glimpse of the blood-smeared front of her tank top and the gory mess coating her décolletage. As Lotta found her gaze wandering to the splotches of blood on the woman's chest, she noticed the ugly gash right in the center that was, even as she watched, beginning to close before her eyes.

Amazed and not a little spooked by the feat she had just accomplished, not to mention by the woman's insistence at discerning what had just happened to her, Lotta retreated out the doorway behind her. "I really must be going," she apologized, taking herself out of view even as the woman finally got her glasses on. Fearing the woman's persistence would drive her to come running out after her rescuer, Lotta quickly took her leave, taking large strides to get her the hell out of the clinic.

Lotta was so struck by what she had just accomplished – something that, to her, seemed to be the most miraculous, not to mention empowering, thing she could ever remember having done in her entire life – that when Carol joined the corridor from the corner just up ahead, Lotta nearly squeaked in surprise.

"Lotta?! What are you still doing here?" Carol hissed, taking Lotta by the arm and hurrying her along to the back exit.

"You seem… agitated," Lotta commented as she they double-timed their way to the rear exit of the building.

"I'm agitated because you're inane moralizing got to me. You sure know how to ruin a girl's day, Lotta. And don't give me that 'you did the right thing' bullshit. We're Kindred now for crying out loud."

"I thought you said your bloodline put you closest to retaining your humanity."

"Shut up, Lotta. I'm a contradiction, alright?" Carol shot back, still strong-arming Lotta out of the clinic. "Stop trying to make me make sense."

They stopped to breathe a sigh of relief once they had exited the clinic.

"You can't claim to remain the closest to your humanity and then jump at the opportunity to ruin another person's life, no matter how big of a piece-of-shit he might be," said Lotta.

"Some would argue that's a very _human_ thing to do," Carol defended herself.

"But we're not 'some people', alright? We're normal people, or at least we were and we should still try to be."

Carol didn't reply immediately and, to Lotta's surprise, she realized that her newfound partner-in-crime actually seemed contrite even though she had little reason to be. Lotta had no leverage on her. And Carol seemed as independent a spirit as any Lotta had come across during her previous life. And as far as Carol was concerned, Lotta was a baby in a new world who knew zilch about its norms and mores. Yet here Carol was, listening.

Or at least she had been. "You're the worst kind of vampire, you know that?" Carol commented, though there was no fight to her tone.

"Which is…?"

"A moralist."

"A humanist," Lotta corrected.

"That's irony for you."

"Let's just get the hell outta here and get back to Mercurio before all this turns out to be for nothing."

* * *

Mercurio hadn't moved from his spot on the couch when they returned. The only difference was that he was now lying on his front, his blood staining the green couch red. He wasn't moving.

"Aw, damn," Carol muttered. "Did you die on us, Mercurio?"

He groaned and slowly began to push himself back off the couch.

"We brought you some morphine," said Lotta. "Hold still."

Mercurio snatched the bottle she offered and downed the entire contents in one gulp.

"That seems… inadvisably dangerous," Lotta commented, not a little shocked.

"I can take it," he insisted. "I'm a…" he coughed. "I'm a fucking ghoul."

They sat in silence while waiting for the morphine to kick in. Aside from several groans, the only thing Mercurio said during that time was, "Why is this thing taking so damn long?" to which Carol managed to shut him up by replying, "It probably would have worked faster if we'd administered it rectally." But eventually, the morphine did start working. Both Mercurio's expression and breathing said as much.

When he was satisfied enough with the outcome, Mercurio sighed. "Oh, holy crap, I needed that."

"You're welcome," said Carol none too gently. "Now can you tell us what happened _before_ you drift off into la-la land?"

"It was that damn chemist," he explained. "Can't trust any operators in L.A. these days."

"Didn't you check him out first before making a deal?"

"Course I verified him. Organization seemed reliable. Guy mixes up speed, his crew sells it. Occasionally, he does explosives. So I set up a drop." He paused as he took in Carol's look of disapproval. "Look, I blew it, I know. But I paid for it, alright? Heck, I'm _still_ paying for it. You don't need to be telling anyone else about what went down, alright?"

"Just tell us what happened," Carol said.

Mercurio seemed dissatisfied at Carol's evasion of his question but proceeded to explain himself anyway. "So I show up at his house with the money, right? Four of these guys come out of nowhere, junkie pricks – hit me with a bat! Felt like a friggin' horse kicked my head in. Those cocksuckers… beat me rotten and left me for a stiff. Had to crawl to my car, crawl my ass up here… But shit, they got the money, they got the Astrolite. You gotta get it back from 'em. Maybe reason with 'em, maybe break in… I wanna kill 'em, personally. Do whatever you people do."

"Where are they?"

"Those small-time sons of bitches live out in a dump on the beach. I think it's just the five of 'em but I'm not entirely sure. The one's got the explosives is Dennis. Got my money too, that prick."

"How do we get there?"

Mercurio gave a smirk. "Lying in a pool of my own blood and you want friggin' directions. Right, okay: down the street, in the parking garage, stairs down to the beach… on the right there's a set of wooden stairs leading up to the place… shit, those better not be some of my last words."

"You're gonna be fine," Carol reassured him. "You said so yourself. Quit being a whiny bitch. Now, we're gonna go get that Astrolite back so the Prince doesn't have _all_ of our heads. But where's Craig? He should have been here by now."

"The text's probably from him." Mercurio pointed half-heartedly at the phone on the coffee table. Lotta fetched the phone for him so he wouldn't have to move from his increasingly comfortable-looking posture on the couch.

"You got a text and you're checking it _now_?" Carol said in disbelief. "What if he was in trouble or something?"

"And I was dying, alright? Cut me some slack." Mercurio unlocked the phone and found the text. "He says there's been an incident at the pier and he's gone to check it out. Says it's been all over the news for the last two hours."

"Check it out?" Carol repeated the words in exasperation. "Somebody's gotta tell that idiot he's not a cop anymore." She reached for the television remote and flipped channels till she got to the closest news channel covering the incident.

"… apparent third victim of the Southland Slasher has prompted the closing of the Santa Monica Pier, where the body was found earlier tonight," said the anchor. "Investigators say the scene closely mirrors those of slayings in Glendale and Long Beach. In both cases, the bodies of the victims were described as 'torn apart', though details are being withheld from the public at this time. Police are urging anyone with information related to this case to contact them."

"I was _in_ Glendale when that last one happened," Lotta commented, slightly transfixed. Then her brain began putting the pieces of the puzzle together. "Can vampires… tear someone apart?" she asked out loud.

"Some…" said Carol. "And you don't want to come across those ones in a dark alley. Fortunately, all we've got to deal with is a couple of no-good human scumbags. Speaking of which, we'd best be going. The pier's pretty near the villas on the waterfront. We'll try to pick up Craig on the way."

"Uh… one more thing," said Mercurio as the two women prepared to leave. "About the deal… You tell anyone about this and I'm dead."

"You're asking us to keep a secret from the Prince…" Carol said, slightly bemused but with a slight tinge of newfound concern in her voice."

"I'm beggin' you," Mercurio said, more insistently and seriously this time. "I got a way of getting people what they need. You don't say anything, I can help you out someday, huh?"

"We'll… think about it," said Carol.

* * *

When they were outside the apartment, Lotta looked at Carol. "What did he mean when he said he'd be dead if we told anyone?"

"Prince LaCroix doesn't take kindly to failure," said Carol seriously. "Ghouls are expendable."

"And fledglings?" Lotta said with not a little nervousness in her voice. Carol said nothing but gave her a knowing look. "Shit," said Lotta.

"So let's not fuck this up, alright?" said Carol, as he led the way to the parking garage that would take them down to the beach.

* * *

Next chapter: Surf's Up. Should take awhile, but not as long as the last wait.


End file.
